


Little Talks

by MissSunFlower94



Series: Bog's Tiny Girlfriend He Keeps in a Jar [1]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bog's Tiny Girlfriend He Keeps in a Jar, F/M, Fairy Marianne, Human Bog, Human Goblins, Implied Sexual Content, Interspecies Romance, Mutual Pining, Pining, Primroses Are Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Bog focusing on delicate -feminine?- features and large dark eyes, the fairy seeming to take the fact that there was a creature nearly ten times her size in more stride than he might have expected. Her eyes were wide, and something in them, plus the paleness of her face, suggested that she had been crying, but it didn’t appear that he was what upset her.</p><p>Then finally, she spoke, her voice surprisingly clear.</p><p>“Shit.”'</p><p>or - In Which Bog King Accidentally Traps a Fairy in His World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing We Can Do

Bog wiped sweat off his forehead, and stretched his arm before returning to the task of cutting the primroses that were overgrowing in his back garden, hoping to have them cleared out before the promise of rain that hovered in the muggy air turned to a reality.

The things grew like damn weeds - and like weeds, he’d never planted them. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t planted a lot of the plants that resided in the garden behind his home. In fact, at this point it wasn’t so much a garden as a sprawling plot of plants that just so happened to flower. Still, he tried - mostly in vain - to bring some semblance of order to it. 

The garden was his father’s, much like the house was his father’s. He technically lived there now with his mother, but Griselda spent so much time with his Aunt Plum (not really his aunt but it felt easier to call her that than call her his mom’s _girlfriend_ ) that it felt like the house was his, and he treated it as such. The area was mostly wooded, a long driveway separated it from any semblance of neighborhood around it, and it had a large backyard that backed up on a forest and stream. Bog was pretty sure it ran into a state park eventually, but had never cared to explore it, simply enjoying the seclusion it provided. He kept what grass there was trimmed, kept his garden gardened.

Hence his exasperation with the damn primroses that seemed to believe they belonged everywhere. He’d cut them down several times this spring alone and they always came back twofold. He had it in mind to cut them all away this time, and was willing to spend all of his afternoon doing so. 

He had been there several hours, alternating humming and singing what had been on the playlist at his bar the evening before. Halfway through Boston’s _Let Me Take You Home Tonight_ , there was a distant rumble from the sky. Bog spared a moment to glare up at the darkening clouds above him. He was glad it was overcast so he wouldn’t have to worry about getting sunburnt, but it had been raining off and on for the past week and he was getting more than a little tired of it. 

Still looking up he felt something smack into his shoulder and nearly fell over. A blur of color went past him, a flying object moving as if it didn’t know where it was going. Bog rubbed his shoulder - it hit him hard, whatever it was - and tried to make it out just as it dove under a hosta bush several feet away from him. 

Bog glared at the bushes, wondering if it was an injured bird. He did not need to deal with that.

He looked back at the remaining three primroses and clipped them all off quickly, all while listening for movement from the hostas. Nothing sounded like was thrashing, there were no angry bird calls but- 

-but he did hear something. Something small, medium pitched with the cadence of human speech. Incredibly quiet, and incredibly fast, human speech. Like someone was murmuring to themselves. He thought he heard a sniff, the smallest sound, like a kitten’s sneeze. It came again. 

Thoroughly confused, Bog walked the few steps, crouched, and lifted up a hosta leaf. 

And had some difficulty reconciling what he saw.

He had heard a voice, and the source of the voice was the creature sitting in the shelter of the plant. It was too large to be any kind of insect, despite the purple butterfly wings that spread out behind it. No, and it was certainly not an insect because, against all reality, the creature’s body was unmistakably humanoid. Even hunkered over as it was, Bog could see its arms drawn around its knees, that it wore clothing, that it had short, wild dark hair. The ears poking free of that hair were long and pointed, like some media portrayals of elves and-

\- and fairies. 

After what must have only been a second or so, but felt like a lifetime as Bog’s whole worldview was rocked to its foundations, the creature noticed that its solitude had been intruded upon and looked up. 

There was another insurmountable period of time; Bog focusing on delicate -feminine?- features and large dark eyes, the fairy seeming to take the fact that there was a creature nearly ten times her size in more stride than he might have expected. Her eyes were wide, and something in them, plus the paleness of her face, suggested that she had been crying, but it didn’t appear that he was what upset her.

Then finally, she spoke, her voice surprisingly clear.

“ _Shit_.”

For whatever reason, the oath comforted Bog, grounded him a bit. He was not dreaming, he was not seeing things. There really was a fairy sitting underneath his hostas, in his garden.

“Should you be here?”

As soon as he said it he could have kicked himself. Of all the fucking things to say. _Should she be here_ \- she wasn’t fucking human! How was he even talking to her like this was something he saw every day.

But she took the question seriously. “No, I shouldn’t. Certainly not like this. I’m sorry- I didn’t notice the primroses.” Her voice dropped to a barely distinguishable murmur. “I had a lot of things going on.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, and for a moment Bog thought she might start crying.

The last thing he needed was an otherworldly creature crying in front of him. “What do you mean ’ _not like this_ ’? Where did you come from?”

She looked back up at him, looking grateful for the distraction. “We’re not supposed to cross the veil without glamour. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this, but it’s not like I can change over here.”

“Why not?”

She laughed bitterly. Bog was amazed at how human her gestures and moods were. “Magic doesn’t work on this side of the veil. If I cared enough right now I’d cross back and change just to prove it, but,” she waved a tiny hand in a dismissive gesture. “Screw it.”

That almost made him smile, in spite of himself. “Cross over where?” He asked instead, trying not to make it sound like he wanted her gone. Though it’d be nice to end this and write it off as a very, very unusual hallucination. 

“I told you,” the fairy said. “The primroses. They’re a border between your world and ours.”

“They mark the border?” He had a bloody border between realms in his backyard. Perfect.

“No, no. They are the border. You step directly over them, or - in my case, just now - fly under them. That’s how you cross.”

Bog listened to this with growing dread. “Do they have to be living?”

Her small brow furrowed. “What? Yes, they have to- wait, _why_?” She got to her feet - Bog thought she couldn’t be over six inches tall. Then her wings snapped open behind her and she took flight. He stumbled backward, falling back onto his ass as she flew past him. He heard her dismayed noise and turned around, shifting more comfortably onto his knees. 

The fairy hovered about eye level with him, but she was staring ahead - where he had been chopping down primroses. Their stalks lay on the grass, next to his clippers. She stared at them and then looked at him. “ _What did you do_!?” She demanded furiously.

Irritated, he waved a hand at the garden. “I was weedin’ my garden! It’s nae like I knew they were a bloody portal, ye mad thing! I didn’t even know ye existed!”

She inhaled, like she was ready to shout at him, then she seemed to deflate, losing a couple inches of height. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” She dropped to the ground, and began to pace, crushing irish moss under her feet. He could barely make out the words she muttered to herself. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening- this cannot be- Dawn’s not gonna know where I am, oh and dad is going to- to think I- and _Roland_!” She spat the name with venom he didn’t think mythical creatures possessed. “Oh god, what is he going to tell them- this is not- I have to-”

Bog had no idea what she was talking about but he didn’t like her panicking anymore than he liked her crying. Like it or not, he’d gotten her stuck - she was his problem now. “Yer talkin like these are the only primroses in the entire world. We’ll find ye another garden. Won’t that work?”

She stopped walking. “I- I don’t know. This is the place we’ve always crossed over. Who knows, I could wind up on the other side of my world, leagues away from my home.”

“But ye’d still be in your world.” Even as he said it Bog knew that was little consolation. If he suddenly found himself in the middle of China with little means to get home, it wouldn’t matter what world he was in. 

So his backyard, his dad’s bloody garden, was in fact the active portal between two realms. For an insane second he wondered if his father had known. Then he wondered if that was why primroses grew so fast, despite how often he cut them down.

That thought made him freeze. The primroses. “They’ll grow back,” he blurted.

She frowned. “Yeah, and how long will that take?”

“Not long,” he assured her. Though Bog had never actively counted the days between when he cut them down and when the damn things came back, he knew in a few days there would be new primroses exactly when he’d ripped them out. “A few days, maybe.”

“A few-” she looked ready to be angry, but then sighed. “I can do a few days.” The sky rumbled again overhead and she blanched. “If I can find shelter.”

Bog looked at the forest just beyond his garden; surely there was something there that could keep her safe. He tried not to think about birds of prey or anything else that might find her appropriately prey sized. If he found out she’d been eaten or killed before the primroses grew back… 

God, he’d only just met a creature out of fantasy, that not five minutes ago he would have swore didn’t exist, and now he was feeling bloody protective of it.

“I’ll help ye look.”

She blinked, looking as startled by the offer as he was by making it. “Thank you,” she said.

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Um, here.” Next to gardening gloves and the clippers he’d used on the primroses was an old mason jar, filled about an eighth of the way up with dried up flower buds. Per his aunt’s request, he collected them for her to use to make tea or potpourri or whatever she wound up doing with them. There was still plenty of space in the jar for the fairy. 

She eyed it with obvious disdain, but with another glance at the overcast sky, got in.

Using his pocket knife, Bog poked five holes in the top of the jar before screwing it on. Then he picked it up gently and stood. “You all right in there?”

“Fine,” she said, in the curt kind of tone used when someone was not fine at all but was going to deal with it. He felt guilty for that, a little, but not as much as he would have if she became something’s afternoon snack. 

He kept the jar at his side as he stepped over the garden and into the forest beyond it. The ground was slick, muddy from the week’s frequent rainstorms. Everything was green and mossy this time of year, flowers were beginning to give way to thicker foliage. 

As he looked he spoke, just to say something. “You said you’d crossed over here before?”

Her voice was muffled from the jar, and Bog could tell she was raising it to be heard. “Yeah. It’s a tradition for our folk to visit your world on major festivals and holidays in spring and summer.”

Bog thought of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and could have laughed. Instead he asked, “You like it?” He ducked from getting his head caught in a spider web.

“I haven’t gotten to see much,” she admitted, “But I’ve liked what I’ve seen.”

He nodded, and then ducked again beneath a low hanging branch, all while still searching for… something. A hollowed out log, or a decaying tree, a overhang over the small stream that ran through these woods. 

He didn’t walk very far before it became clear that anything like that would likely already have something living in it, and something that would not take kindly to the fairy in his jar trying to take its place. He sighed. “This isn’t going to work." 

"It has to, if I’m going to be here for days.”

Bog rubbed his face with his free hand. “I mean, you can stay with me.”

There was an obviously startled silence and Bog fought not to blush under the weight of it. It was either that or letting her loose to possibly die, he told himself firmly.

Finally she said, “Are you sure?”

He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Yes.” A drop of water hit him on the forehead and he frowned at the sky. “C'mon, let’s get you in, then.” He heard more raindrops hitting the canopy of leaves above them, but wooded as they were few hit him.

The fairy’s voice was barely heard under the sound of rain and forest life. "Hey.”

He lifted the jar a bit, trying not to feel stupid as he did. “What?”

“What’s your name?”

Bog rolled his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“I’d like to know." 

Her voice was earnest in a way he wasn’t used to from people. He sighed. "Bog King.”

She was silent a beat, and then, “That’s not a very human sounding name.”

He almost laughed; of all the reactions to his name, that was a new one. He almost appreciated it. “It’s not my birth name, but it’s what I go by. What’s your name - Rosebud?”

Bog wondered if he imagined the pink that spread across her cheeks. “Marianne,” she said.

“That,” he leaned a little closer to her jar, grinning. “Is not a very fairy sounding name.”

She lifted her chin, her glare formidable even given her size and very pink cheeks. Then, all at once, her annoyance seemed to leave her. “No, it’s not. My mother chose a human name for me. She always loved your land, your culture, always wanted to learn more about you.” Her smile was reminiscent. “Probably where I got my curiosity, for all the good it’s done.”

“Wanted, you said. What changed?” Bog asked, before he could stop himself. 

The smile vanished. “Nothing. She died." 

He shifted, guilt and past grief creating an unpleasant mixture in his gut. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s all right,” the fairy - Marianne - said quickly, raising her small hands as if to ward off his apologies. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Bog said.

She lowered her hands, peering up at him. He could have kicked himself. He was not emotionally investing himself in the life of a bloody fairy. He would keep his word, was going to keep her inside, where nothing big could eat her, and wait for the primroses to grow back, but he was not going to start sharing life stories with her - however similar their past grief seemed to be.

Marianne was still searching his face, and he wondered first at how unfortunate it was for her that she had to be saddled with his ugly mug, as large as if it was being projected on a mega screen (he cringed at the mental image). And then he wondered if his face was easier to read that way, because whatever she found in his expression was enough for her to keep silent, and at last avert her gaze.

Bog shook himself, adjusted her jar, and continued up the yard to the house.

Marianne and her jar were placed on the kitchen island, before he turned and shut the screen door behind them - just as the sky seemed to open with a downpour that already made it hard to see the end of his yard. He’d go back for his gloves later, he thought. 

There was the muffled sound of the jar being knocked on. “Bog- hey! Bog!" 

He turned around, startled. "What?”

“Are you going to let me out now, or what?”

He blinked. He hadn’t thought about that. His house was safe; he didn’t have pets, it was relatively free of clutter… she’d be all right if he let her free. 

But the idea of having someone else, even the little fairy, have run of his house made him uncomfortable. He was an only child, had never had to live with a roommate and for the last few years hardly really lived with his mother. Sharing a living space was something he was completely unused to, and he wasn’t sure he’d want to be sharing it with a creature from another world. It was like having a too-intelligent puppy. God only knew what she’d get into.

He could tell her no. Tell her he felt she was safer if she stayed in the jar… transfer her to a larger jar of some kind even. It’s not like he’d puppy- no, fairy-proofed his home. 

But Bog looked at her, really looked at the fairy in his jar for the first time since he had seen her. She was small, but from what the way she spoke to the way she acted, he could believe she was by no means a child. Her dress obviously was once white, now torn and dirty, and there was still a pale quality to her that suggested more shock than genetics. For a second, Bog imagined if there was a young woman, human, in her condition. Someone he’d stumbled on who, for the moment, relied on him to help her.

He shook his head, and unscrewed the lid.

Marianne’s wings flared out and she flew up and out of the jar, landing again in front of it. She sat on the island counter, and grinned - her teeth looked unnervingly sharp. “Thank you. It was getting hard to breathe in there.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

She shrugged. “It was smart to keep me in when we were outside - I was willing to put up with it.”

Bog scratched his neck, uncomfortable with how close he had been to letting her stay there. “You’re a tough wee thing, aren’t you?”

Her smile dipped slightly. “I wouldn’t call me that.”

“Yeah?” He said. He on a stool, resting his chin in his hands and bringing them closer to eye level. “You’re takin bein stuck with me surprisingly well.”

Marianne made small huff. “I could say the same thing to you.”

He grinned. “Aye, but I know I’m tough,” he said. He’d had to be, he finished in his head. “An’ I know a tough girl when I see one.”

She laughed. “All right, all right.” She looked ready to continue but the riff from Bad To the Bone blared from his pocket. “What is that?”

Bog didn’t answer, to busy digging it out and confirming his fears. 4:30. “Fucking hell, is that time already?” Dealing with a literal fairy, it was easy to forget his other obligations, like work. He had twenty minutes to get down there. Not impossible if he left immediately. He looked up from his phone and into Marianne’s small, inquisitive face. “Shit,” he said. 

Marianne blinked. “What is it?”

“I have to go, Tough Girl,” he said, surprised by his own reluctance. He was just uncomfortable with her being in his home without him, he told himself. He wasn’t worried about leaving her alone. “I got work.”

“Oh,” she said, but she didn’t sound upset. “Where do you work?”

“I own a bar, and work shifts bar tending down there.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Ye- you know what a bar is, don’t ye?”

“Yeah, Dawn - my sister - and I went to one when we came for the last summer solstice. You have so many different kinds of alcohol - it was fun.”

Bog tried and failed to imagine the creature sitting cross-legged on his kitchen island at an actual bar, drinking, and moved forward. “Ye’ll be all right, if I leave you?”

“At worst, I’ll be bored,” she assured him. She looked around her. “Although I doubt that I will be.”

“Ye won-”

Marianne cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I’ll stay in this room, I won’t go through any of your things. I may not be human, but I know how to be a good guest.”

He flushed, embarrassed at himself for judging her. She was clearly independent, mature, and it wasn’t like she’d never been in his world before - she wasn’t ignorant either. 

Taking his silence as a concession, she smiled again. “I’ll be just fine. Least I can do for being allowed to stay.”

Bog nodded, willing himself to trust her. “Right. Well, I need to get ready. Um.” Unsure how to finish the statement he retreated further into his house, changing into jeans that weren’t grass-stained and a shirt he hadn’t sweat in. He dragged his hands through his hair a few times, as if that did anything to make his appearance more palatable to anyone. Grimacing at his reflection in the mirror he returned.

Marianne hadn’t budged. “You look good in black,” she observed.

“Don’t recall askin,” he said absently, grabbing his keys and his wallet. 

“Don’t care,” she returned. “It’s true.”

He bit his lip to keep from grinning. “Is that a fairy thing? Sweet talkin your enemies to let their guard down?”

“No and you’re not my enemy anyway,” Marianne said, lifting her chin again - clearly a gesture for when she felt defiant.

Now he had to smile then, pocketing the keys and wallet. “Of course not, Tough Girl. You behave, all right?”

The last thing he heard before he shut the door was her calling back, “Of course, Bog King. Of course.”

* * *

He got to the Dark Forest bar with two minutes to spare, shaking rain from his hair and wishing he hadn’t been so distracted to have forgotten his umbrella leaving.

 _Marianne could have mentioned it_ , he thought bitterly. But then, she had reason to have been distracted, too.

“Strange to see you anything less than a whole hour early, boss,” Steph said, unnerved when he glared at her. She was an old employee, one of his first when the place was starting out; if anyone had job security, it was her. 

Thang, who had worked as long as Steph had but had considerable less job security in Bog’s eyes, hesitantly added. “You okay?”

He ran a hand back through his hair. “I’m fine,” he grumbled. “I just got caught up doing… stuff.”

His employees and coworkers all seemed to stop for a second, catching his flushed and flustered appearance and obvious dodging of the question. They were all staring at him like he’d spouted a second head. 

“ _What_?” he demanded, sourly. Immediately, those with jobs to do returned to them, ducking their heads and avoiding eye contact. 

Yet Steph leaned back against the bar, grinning. “Does your ‘stuff’ have a name?”

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused for a second before he realized the insinuation. He froze, blushing an angry red. “What- _no_! No, that’s not- she’s not-!” Steph laughed and he realized what he’d said and buried his face in his hands with a mortified groan. How was he supposed to explain that the idea, already absurd that a woman would be in any way receptive to him, was absurd on another whole level because the girl in question was a fairy not even half a foot tall?

Marianne’s words about crossing over in glamour rose to the back of his mind, unbidden. Red faced, he mentally shoved them away.

“I need to tell my mother to stop coming to this damn bar - yer all startin’ to sound like her.”

“Please, there’s a difference between asking for details and inviting the whole bar to your wedding.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he growled. “Her name is Marianne - and it’s not what ye bloody think. I just had to help her get home.”

 _Was helping her get home_ was more accurate but Bog was hesitant to let them know she was still around. He could keep the lie concise if they thought she had come and gone already.

“You gonna see her again?” Thang asked, spectacularly failing to pretend he hadn’t been listening in. 

“Not if either of us can help it,” he said. “Come on, it’s _me_ ,” he added with a dramatic gesture to himself. Six foot four, bony, with bad skin and even worse teeth. That a woman - any woman - would look at him in anything other than disgust was just not possible. 

Steph snorted, pushing herself away from the bar. “Whatever you say, BK. Just don’t hold out on us if you see her again.”

Bog pictured Marianne, the small, but tough, fairy that was stuck here because of him. “Believe me, I’m not going to.”

* * *

The house was dark when he returned, shortly after midnight, and exhausted after a night’s work Bog had almost forgotten about Marianne. He wondered if he should have left a light on for her, and then, after turning the hall light on, wondered if he should have kept it off if she was sleeping? _Did_ fairies sleep?

Quiet as he could on old wooden floors, Bog wandered into his kitchen and living space, intent on the small creature. He found her on the arm of his cracked leather sofa, slouched in an awkward position - like she had been trying to stay awake and ultimately failed. Her head was forward in a way that couldn’t possibly have been comfortable and he didn’t envy her the way it would ache when she awoke. 

Unless… 

Bog was a fairly impulsive person by nature, and exhaustion made him even more so. So he was more than willing to blame all of the above as he dug out a shoebox from under his bed, took a could of clean hand towels from a linen closet and constructed a small nest. After a moments deliberation, he settled on putting the nest-bed on the coffee table in the living room. Then he turned back to the dozing fairy.

Awkwardly, he brought his hand gently around her, hoping he wouldn’t grip her too tight. She was everything that Bog believed fairies were to look like; short, petite, short haired ( _pixie cut_ , he thought and snorted softly) delicate in appearance. It all contrasted with her strong personality. She certainly didn’t look like she’d say 'shit’ as her first words to him. He remembered her pale face and wide eyes, and sobered slightly. Something more had happened to her, something before she had even wound up marooned here, and to shake this little tough girl, it hadn’t been something trivial.

Marianne shifted in his hold and jolted him out of his thoughts. Holding her as still as he could he turned to the tiny bed. Before he could lay her down, she shifted again. “Bog?”

He felt himself blush. “Ye- ehm- ye looked uncomfortable, I wasn’t s-sure if-”

“No, you’re right,” she said her voice hoarse with sleep. “I was very uncomfortable.”

Bog almost laughed, and returned to his task. He made sure her wings weren’t crushed under her, and watched as she adjusted herself to the new surroundings.

“Very nice,” she said sleepily, shifting onto her side, curling her legs up, a smile visible on her face. “Thanks.”

Bog shrugged, though her eyes had never opened to see it. “Don’t thank me, Tough Girl. I’m why you’re here, after all.”

Marianne said nothing. She had fallen asleep.

He sighed and stretched. Walking toward the hall he paused at the light switch, and gave one last look to the shoebox that would be a fairy’s bed for who knew how many days.

“Goodnight Marianne,” he said softly, flipping the switch.


	2. Keeping Me Awake

Bog woke early the next morning, from dreams about being shrunken down in his back garden and being stuck in a jar, and stared at his ceiling while he worked out what was dream and what wasn’t.

Unfortunately, the fairy, Marianne, was _not_ part of the dream. It was only unfortunate, he mentally noted, because he had liked the version of reality he’d had in his head twenty-four hours ago and would have preferred it to have remained that way. Aside from that. Bog was willing to admit, from their short interactions, that he liked Marianne well enough. She was intelligent, had a sense of humor, and was trying to make her presence as little a burden as possible - despite it being his fault she was in that situation.

Bog lay in bed, trying to remember what he knew about fairies. His father had come over from Scotland and knew all sorts of folk tales which Bog had grown up on. He used to love those stories, he remembered. Used to talk about going to Scotland with his father, and see the place they had come from. But, his father died when Bog was twelve - nearly twenty years ago - and the idea of going alone never suited him.

He shook himself from those memories, forcing himself back to the issue that had brought them up. Knowing those stories didn’t help much anyway; they were old things, cautionary tales about entering their world, and would have never had any advice for someone who found himself living with one of them for a extended period of time in modern america. He remembered stories about not giving fae your real name and smiled to himself, remembering their conversation about his not-very-human name.

When he finally got around to rousing himself and leaving his bedroom, he was surprised to see that Marianne wasn’t awake yet. The clock on the microwave said it was a quarter to eight, so perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising - he usually slept in later than this and expected most people did when they worked evenings.  Still he pictured fairies being up with the sun. _Not that there was much of that_ , he thought, with a glance at the misty yard outside. Eating a piece of toast, he returned to the living room, sitting on the couch before the coffee table. 

Marianne had barely moved since he had lay her down in the shoebox nest. She still slept on her side, and had brought her wings up to serve as a blanket. Those wings were incredible; the brightest, most vibrant shade of purple Bog had ever seen, as if they were a color that didn’t exist naturally in his world. He could believe that. 

Her small face was, admittedly, beautiful, in the same ethereal way her wings were. Her skin was pale and perfect, her pursed lips had the slightest purple tint to them. Her eyes were larger than perhaps natural but even that seemed to enhance her otherworldly beauty. In sleep, she almost looked like a statue, carved from porcelain. Something to admire, to collect, not a living, breathing creature with a life of her own. 

She moved then. Just a little, a small, unconscious fidget of one of her legs but it was enough for Bog to realize he had been staring at her as she slept. He all but jumped to his feet, walking away from the living room and running a hand through his hair. He’d never seen a fairy before her, and would probably never see one again, but understandable curiosity still didn’t make him feel any less of a creep. She deserved the same amount of respect a human woman did.

He shuffled around his kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and tried to think of things he had to do that day, rather than think about Marianne sleeping nearby. It wasn’t as though he’d ever had female company before, to know how to behave the morning after. His brain caught up with the analogy and he felt his face burn red. 

 _For god’s sake, Bog King_ , he thought. She’s a _fairy_. She slept in a _shoebox_. In his _living room_.

Needing something to do, he went outside to get his paper, poured himself a cup of coffee and attempted to read something out of it. He was barely a page into it when he heard movement from the other room. There was a muffled groan from the shoebox and a moment later a small yelp. Even without looking, Bog could imagine Marianne had sat up with a jolt, only to remember where she was.

Confirming his thoughts, he heard her say, “Damn. I was really hoping yesterday was a dream.”

“You and me both,” he called.

“Lucky us." 

Bog turned, ready to come closer so she didn’t have to shout to be heard, only to nearly collide with flying form. ” _Jesus_ ,“ he cursed, stepping back so suddenly he collided with his fridge. "Don’t do that!”

Marianne landed on the kitchen island, by the jar he hadn’t put away yet. “What, and walk everywhere? At this size? I don’t think so buddy.”

Awake, she didn’t look quite so unnaturally beautiful and in a way that comforted him. Her hair was a mess and she looked about as irritated as anyone did that early in the morning. 

“You don’t look like you slept well,” he said without thinking.

Marianne made a face. “Neither do you.”

“Ouch.” Bog put a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “I think I liked it better when you were sweet talkin me.”

That earned him a smile. “I don’t sweet talk, thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say.”

Marianne made a small _harumph_ noise, walking away from him and letting her hand slide across her jar as she moved. Over her shoulder, she added, “I’ve been meaning to ask; who’s house is this?”

Bog’s brow furrowed. “What d'ye mean? It’s mine.”

“I dunno,” she said, making a show of looking around his kitchen. “It just seems awfully big.”

“Marianne, I imagine to you, everything is big.”

She waved a hand impatiently. “I mean for one person.”

He sobered. “Aye, I suppose it is.” At Marianne’s inquisitive look, he shrugged. “It was my dad’s house. I mean, he didn’t _build_ it-build it, but he renovated most of it, made it what it is. The Dark Forest - my bar - is popular enough that I can still afford it and I can’t stand the idea of givin’ it up just because its a bit drafty,” he attempted to smile at her.

Marianne’s expression was sympathetic and Bog realized he had said without saying that his father was gone. “What about your mom?”

There he snorted. “Lives with her girlfriend now, more or less. She’s here to nag me more often than I need, and that’s all I need.”

“You like being alone.” It wasn’t a question. Her voice lowered, and she looked at her feet. “I can understand that.”

Bog watched her, unsure what to say to that. She was right; he did like being alone, was introverted nearly to the point of agoraphobia and was used to being that way. But from the looks of it Marianne wasn’t, and it made him uncomfortably close to attempting to say something comforting. 

What that would have been he didn’t know because he heard a key turn in his door and blanched. Of course. Of fucking course, his mother would choose that morning to check in on him. “ _Speak of the fucking devil_ ,” he groaned.

Marianne blinked. “What?”

“My mother,” he said. “Ye need to-”

“Where?” She interrupted, already in the air. He was sure he would never get used to her flying, but there wasn’t time to focus on it. 

“My room, straight down the hall.”

She disappeared into the darkened hallway just as the door opened. They were only safe really because his mother was burdened by three plastic grocery bags and had had difficulty getting the door handle to turn. Bog silently thanked the powers that be, because it allowed him to settle onto a stool, and drink his coffee like he had been there, alone, all morning.

Griselda smiled widely at him as she waddled into the kitchen. “You’re up early.”

He made a vague noise into his mug, hoping it expressed tired indifference and didn’t betray his frantic heartbeat. His mother was an older woman; the last thing he needed to do was go and give her a heart attack. She plopped the bags on the island and he shook his head. “Ye don’t need to buy me groceries. I am more than capable of-”

“Of course you are,” Griselda said dismissively. “But Plum stopped by a Farmer’s Market on her run this morning and all but cleaned them out, you know how she is.”

“Do I ever,” he said with a resigned sigh, getting to his feet to help her shovel things into his fridge. It was mostly fruit: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, cherries, peaches, a carton of cantaloupe. “How is she?”

“Impossible, as always,” she said with clear fondness in her voice. “She’s in the middle of a project, so the place has smelt like aerosol spray paint for days.” Plum was a professional artist, mostly freelance but occasionally had pieces up in galleries that sold for prices Bog could not believe. 

He always figured he should feel a touch… uncomfortable with the idea that his mother had begun a relationship not very long after his father’s death, especially given that he and Plum butt heads more often than they didn’t. But Griselda was happy, and that was more than enough for him. She was a nag, smothering when she wanted to be, but she’d done her part raising him - _more_ than her part towards the end - and deserved that happiness. 

It did amuse him that the two people his mother had fell for were artists. Let no one say that Griselda King didn’t have a type. 

“But enough about me,” Griselda handed him a bag of gourmet cheese curds, which he eyed warily before depositing them in the fridge. “What’s this I hear about you helping a girl home yesterday?”

Bog almost hit his head on the fridge door. He really should have seen that coming (he had no idea how his mother got information so fast and at this point was past questioning it). “And her real motive reveals itself,” he muttered under his breath. “Look, I just helped her get home, nothing more. Trust me, Marianne was not interested." 

The wrong thing to say. Ignoring everything else, the slip of using Marianne’s name was apparently enough for Griselda to believe there was hope. "But _you’re_ interested?”

“Mother-” he began, remembering that the fairy was only a few rooms away. _Please let her have poor hearing_ , he prayed. 

“Was she pretty?” His mother pressed.

“Oh for-” He cut off the oath before Griselda could chastise him for it. In the pause, Bog’s mind flashed back to Marianne’s sleeping face, her features ethereal and perfect at rest, to her wide and wicked grin, to large dark dark eyes. “Aye,” he said, absently. “I suppose she is- _was_.”

Thankfully, his mother missed the slip, eagerly moving forward. “Did you get her number?”

He pictured Marianne with a cellphone and almost laughed. “No.”

“Didja give her yours?”

“No.”

She threw up her hands. “For goodness sake, son - if you were willing to take a chance on anyone you might be surprised.”

Now Bog did laugh, a bit louder than perhaps necessary. Griselda put her hands on her hips and waited for him to stop. “Ah jist- I know ye mean well but believe me, mother: I am not her type.”

“You can’t know that.”

 _Oh, he certainly could_ , he thought. And honestly, even if Marianne had been a human young woman - god, he imagined her coming over in human glamour, going to a bar as she said she had in the past, going to his bar. The idea that she would look twice at the disheveled and unpleasant bar tender, with a resting face like a thundercloud, and look at him in anything but disgust was truly laughable. 

Right now she was stuck with him, but he’d never believe for a second that he would be someone she chose.

At his silence, Griselda sighed with exasperation that matched his own. In many ways, Bog was the carbon copy of his father which made it hard to remember that he likely got his damned stubbornness from his mother. “If you insist on keeping yourself miserable I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Bog rolled his eyes. “I don’t want you to do any-”

“What is that?”

He froze. “What?”

His mother was walking into the living room and when Bog saw what she was intent on his heart dropped into his stomach. Marianne’s shoebox bed was still sitting on the coffee table.

Mentally cursing himself out in the most colorful ways possible, he trailed Griselda into the room. “Oh, I- uh- found an injured… squirrel-” He winced, glad she wasn’t looking at him to see it. “-the other day.”

She turned to him, surprise - but not skepticism - on her face. “A squirrel?”

“A-Aye. A baby one.”

The right thing to say. “Aw the poor thing. And it’s all right now? Why didn’t you say anything about it?”

He shrugged. “It- It wasn’t a big thing. I didn’t even do much.”

“Agh, listen to you. Rescuin’ baby animals and young ladies like a proper hero an’ you won’t take a lick of credit for it!”

He could have done without them being back on this topic, but it was better that than suspicion. “I hardly rescued Marianne,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

“Rescued or not, this is the most I’ve heard ya talk about a girl in a while,” Griselda said knowingly.

“Because you keep bringing it up,” Bog said. He took his mother by the shoulders steering her out of the living room. “Come on. I still need to shower.”

“So you’re throwin me out of my own home?” She demanded, but there was amusement in there. They both knew it was Bog’s home by now. 

He shook his head. “Look, do you wanna go have lunch tomorrow - you can bring Plum?”

His mother lit up as he knew she would. “Oh that would be lovely! I’ll have to let her know. You can tell her all about Marianne-”

“ _Christ_.”

“- and she can tell you about this project she’s on about. You know I’m never good at explaining her stuff.”

“Yes, yes. Sounds… lovely. Now, come on. Out you go." 

He walked his mother literally out of the house, to her car, waited for her to get in - and thanked her for the fruit because he wasn’t a terrible son. 

Returning to the house, he closed the door behind him and called. "Coast is clear.”

“About time,” he heard her shout. Rolling his eyes, he returned to the kitchen and his coffee. 

Though he was sure he didn’t want to know, he found himself asking, “How- ah, how much of that did you hear?”

“Oh, most of it,” Marianne said. “You think I’m pretty.”

He rubbed his face tiredly. She would focus on that. “ _Pretty little fairy_ ,” he said under his breath.

“Heard that, too,” she added as she landed again in front of him. She had changed a bit while she had been alone; the feathered collar on her dress was gone, as were her white tights and gloves. She looked more comfortable without them. “I’m really rather average, you know? You should see my sister.”

“I’ll pass. One of you is more than enough." 

Marianne laughed, which turned to a dry cough and kept going to the point of concern. 

"You all right?” He asked hesitantly. She held up a tiny hand to try and wave him off but her small cough continued. 

He glanced around the kitchen for something small enough for her to use for water and found nothing nearby. Frustrated, Bog picked her up, which startled her enough to stop coughing and drew her to the sink. With his free hand he turned on the tap to a gentle stream of water. Getting the hint, Marianne brought herself up onto her knees, and cupped her hands under the water, bringing it to her mouth. She did so several times, more than perhaps necessary to clear her cough. She was thirsty, he realized, and he had no idea how long she had been so. 

Finally, she backed away and he turned the tap off. Her hair and the front of her dress were soaked but she looked thoroughly relieved.

Bog carried her back to the island. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then, “Early yesterday, I think.”

“Jesus,” he breathed. Then another thought occurred to him. “Was that the last time you ate?”

“Yes.”

She’d been almost twenty-four hours without anything to eat or drink. He knew he’d trapped her here, but he really was making it like a prison, wasn’t he?

“It’s all right,” Marianne said, catching the guilt in his features. “We both had a lot on our minds. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until this morning.”

Bog shook his head, returning to his fridge, trying to think of something simple for the fairy to sustain herself on. He brought out the bag of cheese curds, placing them in front of her. “Want these?”

Marianne made a face that was likely similar to his own when he saw them. “Uhh no. I don’t like- we don’t like dairy.”

Bog blinked. Great, in his short acquaintance with the fae he’d already managed to offend one. He thought back to what stories he knew, and then frowned. “Wait, I thought people left cream out for fairies.”

Marianne blinked back, then her expression became impressed. “You know our lore, then? Huh, no wonder you’re handling this well.”

“My dad was from Scotland - of course I know fairy lore.”

They looked at each other for a beat as it became aware to both of them that Marianne probably didn’t know where Scotland was, or why that mattered. 

Thankfully, she moved forward. “Anyways, you’re right. We treat it like a delicacy.” She sighed, stretching out. “Let me put it this way; we love the taste of it - but too much of it doesn’t… _agree_ with us.”

“Lactose intolerant. Got it.” Bog glanced at the cheese curds. “Too much, then?”

“Way too much.”

“Understood.” He’d have to eat them sometime then, if only because he hated throwing out food. Tossing them back in the fridge he looked over his shoulder. “Cantaloupe?”

Marianne shifted onto her knees, interested. “Never had it. Fruit, right?”

He got out the container, using his nail to cut the plastic seal, and opened it for her. “All yours. I’ll pit some cherries, too - do you like those?" 

Marianne was poking a chunk of cantaloupe - larger than her head - with a finger, but looked up, her eyes wide. "I _love_ cherries.”

Bog laughed, and grabbed the bag before shutting the fridge, thinking this was going to be one of the most healthy breakfasts he had had in a very long time. 

“Skies, this is delicious!” Marianne said from behind him, as he fished through drawers for a small knife and his cutting board. He looked over his shoulder at Marianne pulling more manageable sections of the fruit away to eat, and had to smile.

“So,” he said, bringing the cherries, cutting board and knife over to her. “Sorry about lockin ye away for a while there-”

“Your room is bigger than a jar - I didn’t mind. It’s very clean.”

He flushed a little, his thoughts about never having had a girl in his room returning. He valiantly moved on. “And- for the conversation.”

She finished a large bite of cantaloupe before speaking. “I can understand now why you like being alone.”

Bog snorted. “She’s been like this since-” He caught himself. “For years. I admit I’m not makin it easy on her. I just- don’t need that in my life.”

That was already more than he had planned to say, and he could only hope she wouldn’t ask. Just because there was a good chance he was never going to see her again after she returned to her world didn’t mean he needed to be unloading his emotional baggage on to her. He wasn’t quite that pathetic.

Marianne said nothing. Focusing on her again, he found her tearing into the fruit with unnecessary vehemence. Catching his eyes on her, she looked up. Her grin was sharp and dangerous and didn’t touch her eyes. “Trust me; that I most certainly understand.”

Until that second, Bog would have never believed that his pretty little fairy would have the faintest idea what heartbreak was - but it was there, written clearly even in her small face. He felt something warm settle in his stomach and identified it as anger. Love had screwed him over, but he’d reconciled himself in believing he somehow deserved it. But _fuck_ love, fuck the whole _notion_ of it, if it could still screw people over in world’s supposedly more magical than he could believe. 

She studied his face before looking away with a breathless sort of laugh. “You know, anyone else I’d be worried - with that expression plus a knife." 

Bog had no idea what his expression had been but he realized he was holding the knife in his hand tight enough that his knuckles were turning white. He loosened his grip and awkwardly began to pit the cherries he had in front of him. "Sorry.”

“Like I said, if it were anyone else. I trust you.”

Bog felt a different kind of heat warm his face at her frank admission. Awkwardly he handed her a cherry, which she accepted in both hands. Despite its size, this was a fruit she was familiar with and she handled it as such.

Pitting the next cherry he attempted to change the subject. “So- ehm- how long has it been since you were here?”

Marianne hummed with appreciation at her first bite of cherry and then looked at him. Red already stained her hands and lips. “Not since Lammas.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

She laughed. “The start of fall - the first of August. It’s the last festival we make it over for.”

He set another cherry beside her. “Right, you said you only come in the spring and summer. Why only then?”

“I’ll let you think about that,” she said dryly. 

Bog looked at her, confused for a second before the penny dropped. “ _Ah_. Primroses. They’d be gone by the fall.”

“Yup,” she said, grabbing for her second cherry. She had obviously been starving; the speed in which she was devouring fruit that large was astounding. “Sometimes they’re even gone before Lammas.”

“What do ye do when you’re here, anyways? Just come over to our world, hit up bars, and cause trouble?”

Marianne swung her arm out like she wanted to punch him, but was too far away at her size. “Hey! We don’t cause anymore trouble than your kind does for itself. Besides, we’re fairies - we enjoy a good time. I hardly think we have to cause trouble to have one.”

He popped a cherry into his own mouth. “Do you take anything?”

She laughed. “Oh please - we’re not going around robbing you all. Most of your things would be unusable for us anyways. We don’t take anything that wouldn’t be missed. Mostly things that are given to us - like beads and cups at parades - and things that aren’t… _physical._ ”

Most of that made sense. “What do you mean not physical?" 

She waved a hand. A bit of cherry juice splashed the counter with the movement. "Oh, you know - ideas, jokes, music.”

“ _Music_?”

With a wicked smile, Marianne set down her cherry and sang the chorus of ELO’s _Sweet Talkin’ Woman_ in perfect tune, as if she had been waiting for his prompting. Her voice was midrange for a young woman, a bit deeper than he might have expected for her size, and incredibly pleasing. Bog stared at her for several seconds before it truly hit him that she had sung a song from the 70’s as if she heard it play all the time. 

At his dumbfounded silence, Marianne blushed. Or at least, he imagined she did - more of her face was red from the cherries she had been eating, as well as her hands up to her elbows, and the front of her once-white dress. She looked a bit like she was covered in blood. The image suited her in a strange way, the rich dark color of it fit her in a way that white did not. 

He was staring again, he realized. Clearing his throat, he grabbed a paper towel from his counter, tearing off a corner and handing it to her. “Nice song choice, Tough Girl,” he said as casual as he could. 

It did get her to smile, as she accepted the towel and attempted to wipe off her face. “I thought it fitting. I like the classics… or what _you all_ call classic anyways. It’s funny - it hasn’t been around very long and you all already call it classic.”

Bog blinked. That was definitely a conversation for another day, though he was perversely delighted that the fairy he’d met by pure chance also liked Classic Rock. What were the fucking chances?

She’d finished wiping off her face, and licked the remaining juice off her fingertips before glaring down at the bodice of her dress. “Well, shit. I look like I killed something.”

He laughed a little; he loved hearing her curse, it was so surreal. “Aye, you do. I’m not sure anything’s going to get it back to white now.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “Wasn’t a fan of the dress anyways.” She yawned then, then covered her own mouth, surprised. 

“Guess you really didn’t get much sleep,” Bog observed. Her smile was shy but she nodded. He glanced down the hallway. “Well I really do need to shower. Why don’t you try to nap?”

Marianne considered this. “I guess - it’s not like I have plans.”

He cleared away the fruit, putting things away, while Marianne settled herself back in her nest. He imagined her cherry-stained dress was sticky, and probably not too comfortable but there wasn’t anything he could do about that; it wasn’t like he had anything else for her to wear.

“Sleep well, Tough Girl,” he told her. She laughed, waving her hand at him in a gesture he was now recognizing as common for her. 

She’d been in his life for less than a day, and he was already alarmingly comfortable with her presence, he realized as he left her. Maybe that was just how she was; she was sharp-witted and teasing but unobtrusive - seemed more than content to just sit in his kitchen and talk with him over breakfast. And really, how long had it been since _he_ was that willing to share his space with someone, to talk with them in actual cordial conversation? For all that she was a fairy, a creature from another world, he was more… compatible with her than he could have ever prepared for.

Bog’s thoughts for a second turned to the number of stories he’d heard of human men falling for fairy women and then just as quickly shook his head. His mother’s conversation was getting to him, that was all. He liked Marianne, liked her a lot in fact, but that was where it ended. 

And if he found himself singing _Sweet Talkin’ Woman_ to himself for the rest of the day… what of it?


	3. Our Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BOG HAS FEELINGS SOMEONE TAKE THEM AWAY FROM HIM.

Marianne was asleep when Bog got out of the shower, curled up as before.

She continued to sleep through the afternoon. She slept while Bog checked his laptop for more information on fairies (especially what to feed them), made and ate his own lunch, texted Plum about places to go eat, and went out to check on his garden (the primroses hadn't returned, but then, he hadn't expected them to) and get his garden gloves back. 

He wondered if there were any other flowers in his father's old garden that had magical properties. Plum probably knew - alongside her art, her interests were anything and everything that might have been classified as 'New Age' - but he steadfastly refused to ask her. Oddly unlike his mother, it was considerably harder to lie to Plum; she seemed to have a sixth sense about many things, part of why he didn't like her all too much. He didn't need anyone reading him that well, didn't want anyone else in his head.

Coming back inside, he realized he had spent much of the early afternoon on his computer and in his garden. He glanced at Marianne's shoebox, but there was no movement. He might have worried about how much Marianne slept but he had to believe she was exhausted as well as stressed, marooned as she was. He could only be grateful that she was comfortable enough to sleep while he was around. As much as it baffled him how comfortable he had become with her presence it confused him twice as much how comfortable she was with him. 

He supposed, coming over in Glamour three or four times a year, Marianne had more experience with his kind than he had with hers. But there was being comfortable among humans, and being comfortable with _him_.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, filing them alongside many Marianne-related thoughts (the thought that he had a number of Marianne-thoughts also went at the back of his mind), Bog got ready for work - for all that he had over an hour before his shift began. God knew if he showed up like he had yesterday it would only spur more talk among his folk about what might be distracting him. 

While he changed, (finding Marianne's gloves, collar, and leggings folded atop his dresser and smiling), he thought about cutting up fruit and leaving them in a bowl for her so she could eat while he was gone. While he cut up the fruit, he thought about how he'd be out for lunch the next afternoon and he'd need to leave her fruit again. While he left her a note about where he was, he thought about how he didn't work the following night, and how he could actually cook dinner, and what Marianne might like. He hadn't been able to tell from his earlier research whether or not fairies ate meat, so he'd probably have to ask her.

He left, thinking that if Marianne was a distraction she was at very least a pleasant one.

Work went normal. A busy friday night kind of normal, but Bog liked when the bar was crowded, it gave him a feeling of permanence to the place. It also grounded him a bit more in- well, _normal_ reality. Reality where he didn't have a fairy waiting for him at his house, a fairy he had grown increasingly fond of.

Thang was the only one to try and bring it up. "Any news on Mar-"

His look having effectively silencing the shorter man, Bog spoke cooly. "Any news on _what_?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all, sir!"

Bog rolled his eyes. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

As Thang scrambled off to do his damn job, Bog caught Steph laughing. Whether at Thang's lack of tact or Bog's complete lack of subtlety, he didn't know but he made a face at her from across the dark bar anyways.

Marianne was asleep when he returned, but the fruit he had left out had been eaten - the only sign that she had budged at all while he was away. Bog ate a couple pieces of the cantaloupe that remained and put the bowl in the sink, a vague sense of disappointment settling in him. He'd hoped to ask her about dinner tomorrow night.

Christ, it had been less than two days and he already had forgotten what it was like to live alone? He'd only have Marianne in his life for a few days longer; even if he'd failed in not getting attached to her, he at least had to get over the fact that she would be leaving soon.

Thinking there was no point staying up, Bog got ready to go to bed himself. Wandering back out to turn off the hall light he heard rustling from the coffee table. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes; just when he was resigning himself to going to sleep, she _would_ finally wake. He debated sleeping anyways but the pull to speak to her was stronger.

But after a minute, Marianne didn't wake, or at least not in the natural sense. Her rustling was similar to someone thrashing, kicking frantically. Concerned now, Bog walked over to where her nest was. 

He'd been right; Marianne was moving in a way that could very much be described as _thrashing_ , as though she was running away from something. Her legs lashed out, and her wings twitched at her back. A soft, almost keening sound left her lips, the sound so miserable and heartbreaking it ached... and Bog couldn't stop himself.

He knelt in front of the coffee table, trying to get as close to eye level as he could, and brought a hand to gently shake her. "Marianne! Marianne, wake up."

She jerked, suddenly coming to. "Wh-a what?"

"It's okay. It's okay, you were dreaming," he assured her in a voice so quiet he almost didn't recognize it as his own. 

Marianne sat, drawing her knees up, her breathing hard and erratic. She looked at the front of her dress, the dark stain of cherry juice from their breakfast, and then finally up at Bog. He watched her take in his features, and only then did she seem to relax, slumping ever so slightly.

"Bog," she said softly, more like she was reminding herself than addressing him. Bog wasn't sure his presence - his _face_ \- had ever elicited so much relief in someone.

When her breathing finally began to regulate, he said. "It's all right now, Tough Girl. It was just a dream."

She shook her head. "No, I- I wasn't. I mean, I was but it- it was a memory."

" _Oh_."

There wasn't much else he could say to that. She had relieved something that had upset her, shaken her that much. She looked as panicked and heartsick as she had when he first found her, and that alone was enough for him to make the connection. 

"Ye wanna tell me about it?" He asked gently.

"My dream?"

He shook his head with the smallest sigh. "Aye, that- that and what happened. The day you crossed over." A shadow passed over her features and he pressed on, even softer. "I assume that's what ye were dreamin about."

Marianne nodded stiffly. "It was."

She fell silent again and Bog didn't push her. She didn't need to tell him anything; he only asked because he was wondered if maybe venting, bleeding out the poison as it were, might help her. 

She looked back up at him, and he knew her answer before she said it. "I... I can't. Not even to you.”

Bog could feel heat coil through him, leaving him oddly tingly. Maybe she set him apart because, as a human, he was still in a way a stranger that would have no stake in whatever trauma she'd had, but the thought that she might trust him to the extent that she would tell him something personal, something maybe she wouldn't tell anyone else made his stomach churn like he'd swallowed a dozen butterflies.

Not privy to any of those thoughts, Marianne seemed to take his silence badly and added, "I'm sorry."

Bog spoke quickly. "Tough Girl, ye don't _owe_ me an explanation for anythin." 

Marianne gave him a thin smile. She was shivering, holding herself tightly as if that would stop it.

Without thinking Bog held out his hand. She hesitated, looking at it for a long time, before climbing onto it. With that, Bog got up and moved more comfortably onto the old leather couch, keeping her in front of him, cradled in his palm. The warmth of it seemed to calm her.

He tried to think of something to say, to cheer her or change the subject. Preferably both. 

"Did you want to have dinner tomorrow night?"

Marianne blinked up at him and he felt blood rush to his face. It was what he'd wanted to talk to her about, but that was not at all how he had planned to say it.

Finally an almost playful smile came to her lips. "I have nowhere else to be."

He was still red-faced and he hated it. "Ah- I- I meant- what would ye like? D- Do ye eat meat?"

"Not often," she said absently. "Sometimes when we cross over we do. It certainly won't kill us and I'll eat whatever you make."

Bog considered that unhelpful piece of information. Shrimp would be easy, and small enough for her. He'd need to go to the store for it, but he could always do that after lunch with his mother and Plum tomorrow...

At his silence, Marianne added, "You really shouldn't- you're going to all this trouble for me."

Bog blinked. "It's hardly trouble, Tough Girl." She shook her head, like she disagreed but couldn't find the words for it. "I'm hardly doin anything special."

"You really think that?" She asked incredulously.

Equally so, Bog stared at her. "Are ye so unused to people respectin ye that it comes as such a surprise?" The thought stung him. 

Marianne flinched, the smallest bit. "No!" A pause. " _Well_..."

"Marianne..."

She shook her head, waving her hands at him. "It's not- it's not that people aren't- kind to me, you know? It's not that at all. It's only-" She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a second.

"Have you ever- do you know what it's like when you have people who you know like you, but they don't really like you-you? And you know that- that if you ever really were you, the- the real you, that you'd be letting all those people down because you're not the way they think you should be?" She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it off her face, speaking rapidly. "So when they're kind to you and when they assure you that you're fine just the way you are, it's not- you can't believe them because you know that that isn't how you are and- deep down, you just don't feel like enough?"

Bog was silent for several seconds, simply because he wasn't sure if she was going to keep talking. Finally he spoke. "No, I don't know what that's like."

Marianne gave a short shaky laugh.

He continued, "But I can understand why it upsets you."

She nodded, her lips pressed in a thin, tense line, as though she was afraid she'd begin ranting again if she opened her mouth. Bog realized that he was doubtlessly the first person she had admitted any of that to, that admitting it to anyone in her world would be admitting to not being who her society wanted her to be. She knew she was an outcast, but was in a position where she couldn't be. It had to hurt.

Wanting to cheer her up, he added. "I don't have friends to have to pretend around, after all."

Marianne laughed again, more genuine. "That's not true. I mean, I'd like to think you consider me a friend by now, Bog King."

He felt that warmth in him again and tried not to grin too stupidly at her. "Aye, I guess I'd call you that." Marianne's resulting smile was radiant. "Friends with a fairy..." he said, shaking his head. "Never thought that'd happen."

She settled so she sat more comfortably in his palm, making no move to leave it. "You know, we used to be very good friends with your people. I think you used to call us your good neighbors."

"That's what my father would call ye," Bog said nodding, happy to move the conversation to lore if it would please her. "What do you suppose happened?"

"I don't know - not really. The borders between our side and yours used to be less strict, barely there almost. But I think... as you progressed and we progressed we went... different directions. And it's harder to- for us to understand each other, I guess." She shrugged. "It used to be more common for our kind to come over without Glamour but now-"

"Now, a man couldn't see ye without thinkin he was havin a particularly bad trip." Marianne blinked and he realized the reference eluded her. He chuckled a little. "Why do ye come over at all then?"

"Because we're _neighbors_ ," Marianne said, matter-of-factly. "And that is a bond that we intend to respect, no matter our differences. Trust me, there are plenty amongst us who think we should leave ye be, either for our safety or our status." 

"Status?"

" _We're above you_ ," she said, her voice taking on a drawl that showed she was clearly quoting something she heard, and heard frequently. Bog wanted to be insulted on behalf of the human race but mostly he found he was amused by the idea that a race commonly thought to be mythical and out of children's stories were not only real but thought themselves to be superior. "It's not common-held belief but those who hold it are very loud about it."

 _Right-wing fairies_. He almost laughed.

"I take it ye don't hold that belief."

"Well if I did, meeting you would have been enough to break me of it."

Bog snorted. "I'm really not that kind, Tough Girl."

"So you keep saying," Marianne retorted. "I'll believe you cruel when I see it." 

He wanted to tell her that he was kind to the people he had staked a claim to. His mother, his employees, her - but he had a feeling that would be saying more than he wanted to. Instead he shrugged with forced nonchalance.

Marianne shook her head at him, then tucked her knees under her, drawing herself to the edge of his palm. Almost on instinct, Bog brought his hand to his chest, so she sat just above his heart. After a second's deliberation she leaned forward, resting her head against the worn cotton t-shirt he wore. He barely registered it as an added weight; she was so small. Still, her fingers gripped the tiniest handfuls of his shirt, while his curled up to keep her there, in a small, hopefully comforting, barrier. 

They sat there in silence for several minutes, Bog wondering what had possessed them both to attempt- what? An embrace? 

"This probably looks so weird," she murmured, as if sensing his thoughts.

He laughed softly. "Aye, probably." Hesitantly, he added, "But... yer all right?"

"Yeah," she said, sinking a bit more against him. "This is good."

"Good." He shifted so his thumb rested against her back, awkwardly finding purchase between her wings. She shifted a little, but not to shake him off. If anything she seemed to arch against the touch, as if it pleased her.

He liked that, liked making her feel good. He'd felt that way since he met her, honestly. Liked making her smile, making her laugh. Didn't want to see her cry or panic. Hated the idea of her hurt, and wanted her comfort.

Suddenly, with a fervor that surprised him, Bog wanted to hold her, touch her. _Really_ touch her, not whatever poor second this was. 

She'd be small as a human, somehow he knew that without question. Small and petite. Holding her close, properly, she would rest perfectly against his chest; it'd be easy to rest his cheek against the crown of her head. He closed his eyes for a minute, imagining how it would feel to hold her. He could rub her back soothingly, run his fingers through her short, wild hair. That hair would be so soft, her skin would be so very soft, her lips-

Bog's eyes snapped open and his mouth went dry as he realized with perfect clarity that he wanted to kiss the fairy in his hand. Wanted to feel her body pressed against his, his mouth slanting over hers.

**_Fuck._ **

He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, calling himself every curse in the world. Was he _so_ pathetic? Such a fucking masochist that he'd fall for an ethereal creature that took ' _out of his league_ ' to another fucking level? Marianne liked him, trusted him; already that was beyond his belief, already that... friendship he would lose as soon as the bloody primroses returned.

"Bog?"

He stiffened at her address, terrified suddenly that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. "Mm?"

"You okay?"

He wondered if she felt his heart racing, and awkwardly pulled her away from him. "I'm fine," he lied, taking in her large dark eyes and the way she brought her lower lip between her teeth and what the actual fuck was wrong with him? "Why? Did- did ye wanna try sleepin again?"

Marianne shook her head. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep. But I wasn't sure if you-"

"I can stay up a while longer, Mari, if ye want me to."

She smiled. Bog hated how lost he felt in the face of that smile. 

Clearing his throat, he added, "Do- do ye want me to put in a movie? Ye- have ye ever seen a movie?"

"I know what they are, seen things about them, but no I've never sat down and watched one. We usually have... other things we want to do with our time when we're over."

A bit of tension uncoiled in his chest at the return to a topic they were familiar with. "Well?"

"Sure. ' _Put one in_ ' - whatever that means."

He had to laugh as he set the fairy on his couch and hunted through his DVD collection. Realizing she had no idea what most iconic movies were, he began to read the back descriptions to her, waiting for her yea or nay. They settled on ' _The Princess Bride_ ', which Bog had never seen with a person who had never seen of it - or every least knew the extremely popular quotes from it. It was like watching it for the first time himself. 

Marianne was still awake afterwards, and he found his mother's copy of ‘ _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ ’ - the one with the bicycles - and put it in, much to Marianne's amusement. 

"You know the play?" He asked, watching her move her tiny lips along at one point.

"Everyone knows Shakespeare," she said, grinning widely. 

 

* * *

 

 

Bog fell asleep a third of the way through A Midsummer Night's Dream, and was greeted with dreams of Marianne's mouth on his, her teeth snagging his lip between them, her hands languidly roaming over his burning skin. He woke with a neck ache and more than a little guilt.

He assumed Marianne slept at some point, but she was awake when he came to. She wasn't in her nest.

But her dress was.

Bog stared at the white and red-stained garment for a long time. It was neatly folded in the center of the shoebox, very deliberately placed there. Absently he wondered if he was still dreaming. 

"You're up at last!" Marianne called from the kitchen. 

Bog didn't turn, genuinely a little afraid to. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten thirty," she said. "What time is your lunch date?"

"Eleven, I think." He answered promptly. It might have been eleven thirty, but he found himself more willing to leave early. Still, because he had to, he added, "Are you hungry?"

"A little."

Bracing himself - absurdly wanting to cover his eyes, - Bog turned to the kitchen. Marianne sat on the edge of the island, her bare legs dangling off the end. But she _was_ clothed, something dark and billowy.

"What are ye wearin?" He asked dumbly.

Marianne ran her fingers through her hair. "I found... it looked like a scrap of fabric in your spare room. My dress was gross so I thought I might- is that okay?" 

Getting to his feet, Bog came closer. It was indeed, an old piece of fabric that ages ago his mother had used to make a dress of her own. It was wine colored, solid, and - in his mother's case - fairly plain. But Marianne had wrapped the long scrap into a kind of wrap dress, tying it off at her hip. It suited her extremely well, as much for its color as for how comfortable she looked in it. He knew the white gown hadn't been her, but now he could really see how much it hadn't suited her. 

Shaking himself, he got out what was left of the fruit his mother had brought this time a day ago. "Looks good," he said, hoping for the most casual tone imaginable. 

"Thanks." She accepted the fruit with greater care. This scrap of a dress meant more to her than the gown that had likely been fashioned for her. He watched her eat for a minute or so until she looked at him, quizzically. 

Flushing, he said, "I need to shower and get dressed. I'm- I'm gonna leave a little early, I think."

"Oh," she said. "Okay."

Kicking himself for making things awkward, Bog added, "I'll leave the radio going while I'm gone, if you'd like."

Marianne's smile returned.

 

* * *

 

 

He was so obviously flustered when he showed up to the bistro the two women had chosen for lunch, and he hated it. He could feel Plum's knowing gaze on him more than once, even while they ate and talked of other things. 

"So," she said, at last, and he knew that the brief time there Marianne was not the center of conversation was over. "Your mother has been telling me all about this girl. I don't usually get involved in your matchmaking, Griselda, dear - but I can see you're right about this one."

Bog rolled his eyes heavenward. "Neither of ye have ever seen her, Jesus Christ. Marianne is-" He bit back ' _a friend_ ' - now was not the time to get his lies mixed up. "It's not goin to happen," he finished lamely.

Plum raised her eyebrows and said nothing. Griselda sighed dramatically. "I've told you, if you would try to reach out to her maybe-"

" _No_." He snapped the word, cut it short and loud, not willing to hear the ifs and buts and maybes where a relationship with Marianne was concerned, not today, not after the night he'd had with her. He softened the blow of his refusal with a tired sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "I know ye wanna help but I mean it. It's not- it can't happen."

"She's a fairy."

Both Bog and Griselda froze - the latter halfway through a word of rebuttal. They turned to Plum in unison just as the woman took a sip from her wine glass. She set it down and looked at mother and son with confused expectation.

"Well?" Plum said when they were silent. "Isn't she?"

A panicked sort of confusion filled him, and his voice came off rougher and angrier than he might have planned on. "What the _fu_ -"

Griselda cut her son off, smooth - albeit just as confused. "Why d'you say that?"

Bog wanted to shout over her, over both of them, before they could get to the truth, but Plum's words stopped him. "I know what fairy-touched look like," she said simply. Her tone was what surprised him, really; when Plum talked New Age-y she had a tendency to get dramatic, to talk in an exaggerated profound manner. She talked about Bog being fairy-touched like she was telling him about the color of the sky.

He flushed despite himself, thinking about the previous night's revelations and dreams proving just how _fairy touched_ he wanted to be. "Ah am nae- how d'ye- what does that even mean? I'm not- she-"

She waved his flustered words away. "It means you've had contact with the other side recently. Very recently in your case. It's a soft kind of glow about you."

His mother, damn her, was nodding along like this made all the sense in the goddamn world. "And only you can see it on him?" Bog ran a hand through his hair, wishing that Griselda didn't indulge Plum's interest in the supernatural.

"I'm sure there are Mediums in the world who could see it, too, but I'm a special case-"

"Of fucking course you are."

"-Since I'm fairy-touched, myself."

Again Bog and Griselda stared at her. "What." Bog said flatly. 

"My grandmother was a fairy," Plum spoke again like they were discussing weather or comparing pinterest recipes. 

" _What?_ "

That time it was Griselda who said it. Plum laughed, and patted the other woman's hand. "I'm sorry, love. I was hoping to mention it one day but really, how do you bring things like that up when you begin dating someone? Are you angry?"

"I'm- something," Griselda said, sounding a little shell-shocked. It was apparently all well and believable that Bog had a fairy friend, but this was finally what shook her. "But not angry, I think. You'll have to tell me everything later."

"Absolutely everything," Plum agreed. "Though it's as normal an international love story as they come, at least from what I've been told. They met at a Beltane celebration, and though she had to return when the holiday was over, she began to visit him frequently until," she laughed a high tittering laugh. "Until she found she had to stay for nine months."

Griselda snorted loudly and, apparently dealt with that to her satisfaction, she turned back to Bog. "Well?"

"Well, what?" He snapped. 

"Well, Marianne is obviously not a ' _girl you helped home_ ' Ciaran King."

Oh, the _real_ name. Bog cringed away from it. "It's not- aye, she's a fairy - but it's still not what you bloody think," he groused.

"What is she like?"

"Tiny," Bog said, evading the question. He looked at Plum, "She's over without glamour."

He still wasn't sure how big of a deal that was, just going off what Marianne had told him, but the part-fairy woman looked appropriately shocked. "Really?"

"She came over _by accident_ and I _accidentally_ destroyed her way home, for the time bein. We're waitin for it to return and once it does, she's gone. That's that. There is _nothing_ else to discuss."

His voice had gone hoarse by the end of it, rough with emotion he hated to have. 

"But you love her," Plum observed. 

He wanted to pull out his hair. "That has nothin to do with it." She looked ready to speak and he waved a hand like he was brushing it aside. "And Ah daen't want ta hear yer _bloody_ family story, all right? When I say nothing can happen between Marianne an' I, I mean nothin. can. _ever_. happen."

Angrily, he fished out his wallet, pulling out enough cash to cover the lunch's tab, before getting to his feet. He'd feel guilty about this later, he knew, but he was just, really, really not in the mood right then. 

Griselda, all the used to dramatic bouts from her son looked far too calm by this. She merely rolled her eyes, the way he would when she was being equally dramatic. "We're talking about this later," she called after him, as he left the restaurant.

 

* * *

 

 

"We're _not_ talking about this!" Was the first thing he said when Marianne, ever curious, asked how his lunch had gone.

She sat cross-legged in her spot on his counter, eating the blueberries he had left for her. "That bad, huh?"

He couldn't answer that truthfully, could barely look at her as it was, so comfortable, so at home, in his space.

Well, there was one thing he _could_ say. "Well, I found out my aunt is a bloody fairy," he all but snarled. "Or fairy-touched, whatever the fuck that means."

Marianne blinked. "Really? I’d think you’d know that by now..."

He sat down hard on a stool, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. "She's not my real aunt - that's just what I call my mom's girlfriend. She knew about you- or could see I'd had contact with someone on your side."

"Oh," she said. She shifted, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry."

"What?" He asked dumbly. "No, it's nae _your_ fault. I mean," he sighed, pulling his hands out of his hair and lowering them to the counter, staring at them. "It could be worse. At least it means they believe me."

There was a pause, and then Marianne hesitantly asked, "Did she know another way to get me home? Faster than waiting for the primroses?"

Bog felt something cold and heavy settle into his stomach. _She wanted to leave._

He wanted to curse the selfish thought aloud, as if it was a separate person he could argue with. _Of_ fucking _course_ she wanted to leave; this wasn't her home, this wasn't where she was meant to be. It had nothing to do with him. Even if she liked him well enough, that was no reason to leave behind the world she knew. He couldn't expect her to - she wasn't his to keep.

His gaze bore into his hands; he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "I- I didn't ask. But she didn't mention anything either, and I would think she would have."

Not if she was expecting Marianne to stay, because she imagined something between Marianne and himself that just wasn't there.

"That makes sense," Marianne said and, for the life of him, Bog couldn't make out the emotion in her voice.

They were silent together for a moment. Then something hit him and he groaned.

"What?"

"I forgot to stop by the store, to get things for dinner." 

Marianne considered this. "Well, you still have time, I'd say."

She was right. He had time. Tomorrow he'd check on the primroses again, but they could at least have tonight.

For now, he had time.


	4. Just Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably could have been two parts but whatever.

Dinner was shrimp bruschetta, with angel hair pasta and a butter-garlic sauce. Fancier than what he cooked for himself on a night-to-night basis but hardly anything difficult for him. Bog remembered his mother’s impressed sort of teasing, when she discovered her son was far better in the kitchen than she. His employees all thought it both strange and funny that a man who could very well have gone to culinary school and gotten himself a five-star restaurant was happier owning and operating a - albeit popular - dive bar on the wrong side of town.

Marianne had sat on the counter as he cooked, though he told her she didn’t need to. 

“I want to supervise - I am very good at supervising,” she had told him with that commanding little head tilt of hers. “Besides, you might find you need some help.”

He had not needed help, but he appreciated her company all the same. She commented on what he was making and he briefly went over different styles of cooking and popular kinds of foods. Privately, he imagined Marianne eating a burger and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. 

Bog was able to find a cap from a soda bottle (his mother used to collect them when they had codes for discounts on online shopping) which he could use for a bowl for Marianne, dicing the shrimp and noodles into the most manageable pieces before dishing it into the cap (it was only big enough to hold one piece of shrimp - Bog was definitely going to have leftovers). There wasn’t much he could do about utensils, until he found a box of toothpicks and hoped Marianne would be quick to pick up how to use chopsticks. 

The house had technically had a dining room but he never used it, so instead Bog’s plate and Marianne’s cap-bowl went on the kitchen island. He sat on a stool and she settled cross-legged in front of him, the cap sitting before her. 

It was strange; it had been a long time since he’d cooked for someone - he usually took his mother out. But this was good, this felt… good, normal even. Marianne made appreciative noises as she ate, and Bog took a moment to actually enjoy the peaceful scene. Even his feelings for her, a source of constant torment all day, settled into the back of his mind for the moment.

Somehow they got on the topic of his conversation with his mother and Plum. Mostly Plum.

“All she said was that her grandmother was a fairy - came over on Beltane, or something. They had a baby together and-” Bog paused. “Well I assume her grandmother stayed here after that, but she didn’t say.”

Marianne nodded. “I think she did, too. I’m thinking… I’m thinking her grandmother was the Sugar Plum.”

Bog choked on a mouthful of food. “Are you serious?”

“Yes?”

“The Sugar Plum Fairy, really?” He said.

Marianne looked like she was grasping for straws. “Do you… know her?”

“ _Christ_ ,” Bog breathed. “Ye all know Shakespeare but not Tchaikovsky. Okay. It’s- she has a song that almost everyone kno- wait hold on.” Something occurred to him. “That song has to be older than Plum’s grandmother, unless fairies live considerably longer.”

“No, we have the lifespan of a human,” Marianne said. “But we also have a history, especially among the more… magical of out kind, of passing a name down, like a title. A Sugar Plum had been around in our histories for, well, as long as we’ve _had_ histories. Then the last one just kinda, disappeared from record. My mother used to tell me that when she was just a little girl she’d seen the Sugar Plum, that she’d always been a bit _odd_. Her leaving was never really… questioned.”

“So my mom’s girlfriend is descended from eccentric fairy nobility,” Bog said, nodding as he pictured Plum in his head. “Aye, that answers more than it doesn’t.”

Marianne laughed, then gestured to her empty bowl. “Can I-?”

“Wha- oh, sure.” Bog got to his feet, taking the bowl from her. Taking it and the serving bowl, he diced up another shrimp and noodles until the bowl was full.

As he did, Marianne called to him. “You know, I think you are, too.”

“Am what?” He said, returning to her.

“Fairy-touched.”

“I know I’m fairy-touched.” He set the bowl before her and gestured between them with a finger. “Us, remember?”

She grinned. “That’s not what I mean, though. I’m willing to bet you’ve got fairy in your blood somewhere. That’s why you know our lore.”

“I know your lore because my dad, Tough Girl,” he said, not even bothering to feel defensive. He wouldn’t mind having some extremely diluted fairy blood - it’s not like it meant anything about him was different - but he highly doubted they made fairies who looked like him. 

“Yes, yes your dad from Scotland. Where apparently it’s common to know everything about our folk,” she said, lifting her chin. “Is it so hard to believe that there might be places where the veil is thinner than here? Where it’s more common for your kind and mine to have interacted, and it’s more common to have fairy blood?”

“Aye, it is,” he said, but he was grinning at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed. “It would explain why ye and I get on so well.” Bog felt his face get warm as soon as he said it, but was enjoying the bantering conversation enough to not feel too self-conscious about what he said to her. “Maybe it means I’ll get to see ye again, after ye go home.”

_Wait, what?_

“Wait, what?” Marianne asked just as he mentally screamed at himself for beginning to entertain the hope that he might see her again, after all of this had ended. 

“What?” He asked dumbly.

She looked at him, but the only thing in her face seemed to be honest puzzlement. “Was that even a question?”

“What?” He asked again. This was going so well.

“I mean, of course I’m going to see you again.”

_Oh._

Bog felt his heart stop, then begin to race. His throat felt extremely dry. “Ah- Ah don’t-”

Her smiled returned, exasperated and beautiful. “Honestly, you thought I was going to forget this whole adventure after it was over? Please, Bog, and you claim to know us.” At Bog’s quizzical look, she rolled her eyes. “You saved my life- no, don’t protest it, you protected me and that amounts to the same thing. You have done me a service and for that, Bog King, you have my favor. That’s not something my kind forgets about.”

She returned to eating, not waiting for him to respond to that. Which was all well and good because Bog’s response was mental white noise and a desperate attempt not to think too hard about what it could mean, having Marianne’s _favor_. When his heartbeat had regained a healthy pulse and he had downed his whole glass of water, he returned to picking at his food and said in the driest voice he could manage, “I imagine ye’ll have more important things to do than visit a hideous, antisocial man like me.”

“I’m not even dignifying that with a response.”

He tried to glare at her. “Why not?”

She looked up at him, already nearly finished with her second serving. “ _Hideous_. Really.”

“Aye, really,” he said, feeling flustered and a little irritated. This wasn’t usually something he had to argue to people. It was just a fact that he lived with.

Marianne was quiet, returning to her meal, and after a moment of watching her, Bog did the same.

“I wish I was your size,” she said suddenly, with a wistful sigh. 

Bog looked over at her as she dragged a finger over the edge of her makeshift - now empty - bowl. “Why?” He knew she was changing the subject, but was more than willing to follow.

“Well, a number of reasons,” she said dryly. “But mostly so I could eat more of this.”

He scratched the back of his neck, flushing. “It’s not _that_ good.”

“You kidding me? I can’t imagine doing any of the things I just watched you do. I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing. Not that I’ve really been interested in learning.” She sighed again. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to hear that’s not very fairy of me. Well, that is, it’s not very fairy… maiden of me.”

“Not the domestic sort? I can see that.” She wrinkled her little nose at him and he chuckled.  

“It’s not that I think less of it. It’d be great if I knew how to cook or sew, or any of things my sister excels at.”

Bog raised an eyebrow. “Ye compare yourself to your sister a lot. Older?”

Marianne blinked. “Oh, oh no. No, I’m the older one. Dawn’s just- Dawn’s-”

“One of the people ye feel ye gotta pretend around?” He supplied.

She deflated a little, returning to studying her empty cap-bowl. “I try not to. I try to talk to her about it, and she does listen… mostly. But I don’t think she’ll ever understand how outcast I feel. It’s not something most fairies experience I think.”

She shook her head and looked back at him with a wobbly smile. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t get along. I mean, I know she loves me.” The smile fell. “Skies, I wonder what she’s thinking right now. I’ve been gone for _days_ …”

Bog felt guilt and pity unsettle him. She might not feel completely comfortable among her people but they were still her people and she had to be feeling lost, being separated from them for so long. She had family there, that loved and missed her.

“Did you want to check on the primroses?” He asked, suddenly.

Marianne’s eyes went wide. “I don’t think they’ll be back yet,” she said at last.

Bog shook his head. “I don’t think so either but ye can, Ah mean we can get a better idea of how long? Ah was goin to check in the mornin but its still light and if- if ye want…”

Marianne stared at the cap set before her for a long time, and Bog didn’t push her. He had no idea what they’d find but however soon or far away the blooming of the primroses turned out to be, he wouldn’t be happy. Wanted to spend more time with her, didn’t want to hold on to her longer than he should, wanted her to return to him, didn’t want to let himself hope that there was anything between them aside from this companionship they’d formed. Already that was more than he could have expected or hoped for. These sorts of things didn’t happen to him, so he certainly didn’t expect them to last.

“Bog?”

He realized she had been speaking to him and flushed. “Ah- yes?”

“I said okay,” she said. She looked around her. “Should we do something about dishes?”

“I can do them after this,” Bog said quickly. He wanted to get this over with.

She nodded, looking at the evening light out the window. The days were getting longer, but it still wouldn’t be long before it was night. “Should I go in my jar?”

Bog had to laugh. “Why? Are ye feelin nostalgic?”

Marianne laughed in turn, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Something like that.”

A few minutes later, they stood in his garden. Well, Bog stood. Marianne sat in her uncovered jar. The primroses were indeed growing back, the stalks maybe an inch and a half in height. The buds on the ends of them were tiny, however, and didn’t look like they’d have flowers any time soon.

“You know,” Marianne said, coming out of the jar to sit on the lip of it. “I’m not completely sure how they work. I’m not sure if I need the flowers to cross.”

Meaning she could quite possibly crossover right then, Bog thought, feeling cold. He waited for her to suggest it, to come right out and say she was ready to leave. But it didn’t happen. 

“Well,” he said, swallowing past an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “You want to try?”

Marianne turned to him, her eyes wide. She glanced back at the garden, worrying at her lower lip for a moment. Then, “If- if it works… I’ll come right back. I want you to know I’m okay.”

Bog felt his heartbeat rapidly increase. “Y-You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

There wasn’t really anything he could say to that, but he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out. “With or without glamour?”

Marianne was silent again for a moment, and even in the evening light Bog could see her blush, and could feel himself turning a similar shade. What the fuck was wrong with him? What did that even matter? It _didn’t_ matter, dammit. Which way would he have even _preferred_?

“Without, I think,” she said at last. “If only because I don’t know for sure if this dress would take to human glamour.”

Still flushed, Bog nodded stiffly.

Marianne gave a decisive nod of her own, before turning back to the soon-to-be primroses. “Well,” she said. “Here goes.” With no more ceremony than that she flew just above the stalks…

… and hovered just on the other side. 

She took stock over herself for a moment, then turned around to face Bog.

“That’s not how it’s supposed to go, I assume,” he said slowly.

“Nope,” she said, and, as if to prove it, flew back to his side.

They were both silent for a moment, nothing but the sounds of crickets and frogs and other forest nightlife around them. Both aware now that Marianne was still stuck in his side of the veil for a little longer yet, and neither knowing how to react to this knowledge. A dragonfly flew close to Marianne and she yelped, fluttering backwards so quickly she almost flipped over. Unthinking, Bog drew her to him, not putting her back in the jar, but keeping her close to it and him.

“Well,” she said again, sitting down on the lip of her jar again. “Now we know, I suppose. Flowers or nothing.”

“Aye, now we know.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself he said, “I’m sorry.”

Marianne blinked. “It’s not your fault.”

He snorted. “Isn’t it?”

She considered this. “All right, but it wasn’t your intention and that’s what matters in this case. Hey, Bog-” She stood and waited until he looked at her, as close to eye contact as they could manage. “Look, do you think I’ve never heard horror stories about fairies coming over out of glamour and being eaten by something big, or worse - being found by a human, caged or locked away, or pinned to a wall the way your kind does with butterflies? I could have been experimented on if not outright killed, and I know that.”

She looked down for a moment, smoothing her hair back with one hand, before looking at him again. “But instead I ran into _you_. And you, you have been nothing but a comfort to me and,” She gave a breathless, almost shy, laugh. “I honestly don’t know how I got so lucky.”

If Bog had felt his heart was pounding before, it was now in real danger of beating out of his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to think of something, anything, to say to her. His voice was hoarse when he managed, “I’m hardly an example for my entire race, Tough Girl. And I thought you didn’t believe that of humans.”

“I know you’re all as capable of good and evil as we are, which is more than some of my kind would be willing to say.” She brushed her hair back again. “Honestly, this is the most I think anyone has interacted with a human in ages. This is the kind of thing my mother would have dreamed of.” Shrugging tiny shoulders, she smiled up at him. “That only makes me more glad that I met you." 

” _Marianne_ …“ he said, his voice rough. She looked at him expectantly and he quickly shook his head. "We should get back inside.”

“Oh. Right,” she said softly.

He found a vhs tape of the Nutcracker in his basement, and Marianne watched it while he did up dishes. She claimed to know the music, but they all had different names on her side of the veil.

In the meantime he texted his mother, who had demanded information on the Marianne-situation, that she would probably be there for another day or two.

His mother texted back: _You say that like it’s bad. I don’t see what the problem is._

* * *

_The problem_ was Bog’s experiences with love had never been particularly positive. 

He’d fallen in love with an exchange student from Paris nearly ten years before, when he was in school. They spoke often, she seemed happy to spend time with him, so he had thought when she was leaving that it would be the most normal thing to suggest a long-distance relationship. 

And that’s how he found out she was already in one, with a boy back home.

Five years later, he fell for a girl who was a regular at the bar. Young thing, barely past her 21st Birthday. Bog had been young then, too, but he had still felt like an old man to her. Certain nothing could ever come of it, he remained friends with her and said and did nothing about his feelings, despite Griselda’s urging and Plum’s assurance that this girl was right for him.

A year later he came to her wedding, and laughed with her when she told him how she had had the biggest crush on him before, and how she knew it’d never happen because she knew he’d never been interested.

Things like that.

 _The problem_ was those problems had been with women of his own species. 

So maybe Marianne came back, after the primroses bloomed. How long would that last? Right now, with her size, she was stuck with him. But in glamour, she could go anywhere she wanted, within reason, could actually see this world - and could realize that he was hardly a prize by human standards. Maybe it was unfair of him, to think her that shallow, but it was what he knew, what he was used to. There was always someone better than him, and he couldn’t expect her to stay forever.

* * *

The problem was Bog and Marianne both underestimated how fast primroses bloomed.

* * *

 

Two days later, Bog and Marianne sat in his living room - him on the couch, her on her nest. He’d dragged out his guitar, and was playing riffs from Classic Rock songs and seeing if she could guess them. She was doing considerably better than he had anticipated.

His doorbell rang, interrupting the beginning to Sweet Home Alabama. He frowned at the door.

“Your mom?” Marianne suggested.

“Has a key,” Bog said. “Could be Plum, she’s been hounding me about coming over and meetin ye - but I’d think she’d call first.” He got to his feet with a sigh. “It’s probably someone asking me if I’ve heard the good news of Jesus Christ.”

Marianne blinked, confused. “Okay.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a smile. “Ye should wait in the spare room, though. Just to be safe. I’ll let ye know if it’s Plum.”

“Okay,” she said again, smiling. He smiled after her as she flew down the hall, before he went to open his front door, ready to tell whoever it was - including his aunt - to take a hike. 

In his doorway was, objectively, the most beautiful woman Bog had ever seen.

She was young, petite, with shimmering curls of blonde hair bobbed around her heart-shaped face. The day was cloudy but every strand of that hair still seemed to gleam like it caught the sun. Her eyes were large and wide-set and the deepest blue he’d ever seen, a color that almost didn’t look natural-

And by then Bog had realized that she was a fairy. Under Glamour.

Her smile was sunny as could be but Bog could see apprehension in those eyes. Did she know Marianne was here? Or was it simply that he was the first house by the portal and thus the first person she could try and ask about Marianne’s whereabouts? He could tell her, but part of him wanted to wait and see how she asked.

“I take it the primroses are back,” he said at last.

The blonde’s smile wavered, her brows drawing together in confusion. “I’m-”

“Here for Marianne, right?”

Now she looked genuinely surprised. “You know-”

“Heard my name. Is it Plum?” Marianne flew into the room, took one look at the blonde and froze. “Shit.”

“ _Marianne_!” The girl beside him shrieked, pushing past him and into his house. “What- how are you- why are you _like this_?”

Marianne hovered, backing away from where the blonde clearly wanted to touch her. “Um, hi, Dawn.”

Dawn. The sister. Bog couldn’t see much resemblance, but then there was quite a bit of size difference between them. 

“Don’t _hi_ me, Marianne! What’s going on? What are you doing over here- and what are you wearing? And who is this- was he,” she lowered her voice. “Was he the one who captured you?”

“What? _No_!” Marianne squeaked, before Bog could express his outrage. “No! Bog’s been looking after me!”

“Then how did you wind up here?”

Marianne waved her hands. “How did you even find- wait, why are you saying _captured_?”

Dawn huffed, clearly wanting her questions answered. “We found that flower crown at the border, and when no one could cross we realized it had been compromised. Obviously something happened, and you couldn’t have run away.”

Marianne was quiet for a moment, seeming to fold in on herself. She looked as panicked as she had the say she’d crossed over, and Bog stepped a little closer to her in concern. “Oh, I couldn’t have?”

Dawn seemed to miss her sister’s discomfort. “I mean, everyone was talking like you had. I mean, what else could the think, you disappearing on the day of your wedding, but I said-”

Bog missed the rest of what she said, his mind short-circuiting on the word _wedding_. _ **Wedding**_. He looked at Marianne, who was listening to Dawn talk with growing panic and pain in her wide, dark eyes, but for a moment all he could see was the fairy he’d found in his hostas, tears staining her pale cheeks, her perfect white dress muddied and torn. He saw the distant, closed-off look on her face when she said she understood his wanting to be alone, and his disinterest in love.

Marianne had been about to marry… and something happened. Something that hurt her, something that gave her nightmares and fed into her fear that she somehow wasn’t enough as she was.

“I’m not saying I was _running_ _away_ ,” Marianne was saying, her voice wobbling slightly. “I’m saying I’m not going to marry him!”

“Marianne, what are you talking about? What happened? He loves you-”

“No, he doesn’t!” She said. “I can’t- I don’t want to talk about it, he just- he doesn’t love me.”

Dawn’s expression softened, although she still looked confused. Before she could speak, she was interrupted by a voice from outside.

“Is everything okay in there? Dawn?”

Marianne froze completely at the sound. A second later footsteps came and the half-opened door was opened again. 

Dawn turned back to it, in frustrated exasperation. “Roland, I told you to wait by the primroses for me!”

“Yeah but you were takin’ so long, I thought somethin’ might have happened to you,” the man said with a petulant kind of drawl. He was average-looking in a way that male models were average-looking; incredibly attractive but not particularly interesting. Nothing about him really stood out, even bright green eyes that looked more like gemstones than eyes. “Did you find- Marianne!”

Marianne was staring at the unremarkable man like she had just seen him murder her family. She shook her head, as if she refused to believe he was there. She had been surprised to see her sister, but this was something else entirely. This was the same look she had when talking about her wedding, about the man who apparently didn’t love her.

 _Oh_.

Oblivious, both to Bog’s realization and Marianne’s reaction, the man - Roland - came closer. “How did you get- and what are you wearing, Buttercup? Did he hurt you?”

“ _What is he doing here_?!” Marianne demanded of her sister.

Dawn stood off to the side, watching all of them, her brow furrowed with confusion. Clearly this wasn’t how she was used to her sister behaving. “Like dad was going to let me go alone! Besides, I thought you would _want_ to see him!”

Marianne looked between Dawn and Roland, increasingly distressed, flying backward the way someone would unconsciously back away from another’s unwanted advances. 

Bog didn’t even think. He just stepped in front of her, blocking Marianne from the other man with the ease of being over six feet tall. 

Roland’s expression soured, making him look a bit less like a Calvin Kline ad in one of Plum’s fashion magazines. He puffed himself up like a peacock. “How dare you kidnap my fiancee! You’re going to-”

From behind him, Bog heard Marianne’s inhale of outrage, interrupting his would-be threat. A second later she flew up over his shoulder. “You are _not_ my fiancé, Roland!” She snapped.

Roland looked startled for a second before a smile came back to his lips, hesitant and a little confused but clearly attempting charm. “Aw, c'mon now, Buttercup. I know you’ve been havin’ cold feet about the whole thing but that’s no reason to make yourself prisoner of some hulking creature like that.” He gestured to Bog with an expression of extreme distaste.

“It has nothing to do with my feet!” Marianne cried.

“I didn’t kidnap anyone, Pretty Boy,” Bog added coldly, already disliking anyone who hurt her. “Marianne’s been my guest and will be until she chooses to leave.”

Roland scoffed. “You really expect me to believe you just stumbled on our crown princess?”

“Yes, I- wait.” Bog went still, his brain suddenly caught on one word. He looked back at Marianne. “ _Princess_? Marianne- you’re not-”

Marianne turned to him. “Did I… not mention that?”

“No. No, you didn’t mention that,” Bog said, a bit harsher than he had planned. He wasn’t truly mad at her, not half so much as he was mad at himself. _Of course_ , because falling in love with a beautiful fairy wasn’t bad enough. He had to have fallen for their fucking _princess_. Because life hated him that fucking much.

“Really?” For the first time in this whole conversation she sounded more irritated than terrified. “ _This_ is what you’re gonna focus on?”

“Yeah, this is what I’m goin to focus on! Were you plannin to ever, I don’t know, tell me?”

She waved a hand (and wasn’t that the most royal gesture he’d ever seen - suddenly her commanding way of lifting her chin made all the sense in the world), “You know what? Probably not! I honestly didn’t think that this would matter to you! Does it?”

“Of course it matters!” That was Dawn, inserting herself into the conversation again.

“I’m sorry… were you two just having a- a _lover’s tiff_?” Roland added, wrinkling his nose.

“Shut up, Roland,” Dawn and Marianne said it in unison and for the first time Bog saw their relation.

Dawn continued. “Marianne, dad’s freaking out - everyone is! The council is talking about closing the borders for good - saying this is proof that it’s too dangerous to keep open! They were ready to say you were _dead_! I barely convinced everyone to let me try to find you first!”

Marianne was quiet, simply hovering. She looked at Dawn, then at Bog, then back. She was warring with herself, he could see it, though he wasn’t sure why. She needed to return, she knew that, and he was sure she wanted to, too - but… not like this. He looked at Roland for a moment. Not with him.

As if on cue Roland spoke, twirling a strand of hair around his finger. “The plan is to still get rid of the borders when we’ve rescued you, of course. We can’t have it happening again.”

“ _What_?!” Bog snarled.

“What?” Marianne said. “No! No way!”

“C'mon Marianne,” he drawled. “This world ain’t worth puttin’ you in danger.”

“I was never in any fucking danger, Roland! This world- it’s- it’s part of our history, of who we are! We can’t just-!”

He shook his head, smiling with a slimy excuse for affection. “Aw darling, it’s so sweet to see you get… _passionate_ about these kinds of things. You know, I think if I brought you back, safe and sound, and the wedding was back, of course, I could help convince those elders to keep the border open. They’d listen to their future-king, I’d say." 

"Roland!” Dawn gasped, shocked.

“You fucking-”

“ _HOW DARE YOU_?” Marianne downright screech of fury, in spite of being considerably smaller than everyone else, drowned out every voice in the room. “How fucking _dare_ you? After everything you did to me you think you can blackmail me into fucking marrying you because you’re a power-hungry piece of shit? Roland, you _cheated on me_!”

“Marianne!” Dawn gasped again. Bog almost wanted to echo it, feeling his heart clench. He’d always been unlucky with love, but god, he’d never had to deal with that kind of pain, and he’d never have wished it on anyone.

Roland looked at his audience, nervously. “Now, darli-”

“ **NO** ,” Marianne shouted. “No, you- ALL OF YOU are going to _SHUT UP, AND LISTEN TO ME_! I know that’ll be hard, especially for you Roland, but I swear I am not above making Bog gag you if it means you will close your fucking mouth for once in your damn life!”

There was a beat of silence. Then Roland, who really appeared to have a death wish, opened his mouth. “That’s hardly-”

“SHUT. UP.”

He shut up.

Marianne took a deep, deep breath, closing her eyes and seeming to gather herself. She opened her eyes again, squared her shoulders and spoke. “Bog, look. I’m sorry that I’m not particularly sorry that I didn’t tell you I was a princess. I really didn’t think it would matter to you.”

Bog felt a mix of indignation and guilt heat his face up. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Marianne did not appear to be waiting for a response and moved on. “Dawn, I _am_ sorry I worried you. I never meant to wind up here, but it was my intention to get away. I wish I could say that, had I been in a better state of mind, I would have gone to you and told you about what happened first… but I don’t know.” She looked down, and for a second her fire dimmed. “I don’t know if I would have thought you’d believe me.”

Dawn looked like she might cry, but she didn’t protest this accusation. 

“As for you,” Marianne had turned to Roland now, the fire back again as if it had never left her. “I am not sorry for leaving you at the fucking alter, and I never will be. You _cheated_ on me, and you aren’t even sorry. And yes, I was hurt. I was heartbroken, Roland. And then I was angry. But now,” she laughed, actually _laughed_. “Now, I’m looking at you, and I am so fucking _relieved_. I am so relieved because I got out, because now I know I will never, ever have to be stuck married to man who doesn’t love me - who certainly doesn’t respect me.”

Roland scoffed, then opened his mouth again.

“ _No_!” She shouted. “No, you don’t get to speak. You don’t get to talk over me, not ever again. I am your princess, and you made me feel like I was _worthless_. You made me feel like nothing I said or did mattered unless I had you by my side, as if I fucking needed you to give me power, to think for me. But that is _over_ now. You are not my king, you are not my fiancé, and you sure as fuck are not getting the chance to be my _savior_. I am not going _anywhere_ with you, and I never want to see you again.”

There was ringing silence, broken only by Marianne’s rough breathing, having nearly screamed in the considerably larger man’s face. But in that moment, she might as well have been towering over every other person in that room, a pillar of strength. Bog could tell both Roland and Dawn were shaken by her behavior - and in a way he was too - but he realized that this was the Marianne she had always kept hidden, and the Marianne he had gotten to see beginning to break through an incredibly thick shell of insecurity and years of having that fire in her smothered. 

“Marianne.” That was Dawn’s voice, thicker than it had been before. “You can’t mean you’re staying here.”

Bog felt himself stiffen as Marianne deflated slightly. Before either of them could do anything, Roland tried to speak. “Y'see, Marianne, Dawn unders-”

“You shut your mouth!” It took Bog a full second to realize that was not Marianne but Dawn who snapped. “You’re _not_ speaking for me, understood? Gods, do you know what I’ve- I have taken your side for years - _your_ side, over my own sister’s! - because I was so sure that Marianne was reading you wrong. I told her, ‘How could he not love you?’ _How could you not love her_?” She demanded in tearful fury. “And you know, maybe some of this _is_ my fault for taking your side for so long but, I can at least swear this; I am _never_ listening to a word you say again. And, if I have my way, nor will anyone else.”

If Marianne’s outburst had surprised Roland, Dawn’s had completely horrified him. He was looking at her as if his toy poodle had just bitten his hand off. Bog couldn’t help the amused snort that left him.

Dawn looked at him then, but it appeared her anger had been spent. In fact, she smiled at him, before looking at Marianne. “Sis…”

Marianne managed a smile for her, flying closer until Dawn held up a palm and Marianne landed in it. From her perch, she looked over at Bog. “Could you… hold on to Roland for a little bit. I want to talk to my sister privately.”

“'Course,” Bog said immediately, turning to the blonde man.

“Wait- what d'you mean ’ _hold on_ ’- OW!” Roland screeched, as Bog grabbed his arm, and twisted him around so that it was behind his back. “ _Ow ow ow_! Let me go, you beast!”

“This all right?” Bog asked Marianne, trying not to sound to pleased with himself.

“Perfect,” Marianne said sweetly. The sister disappeared down the hall and into the spare room.

Roland struggled for a moment, before he realized Bog had no intention of letting him go. “Come on. Listen, listen, you don’t need to do this. I’ll sit outside nice and quiet.”

“I hate to tell ye I don’t believe you." 

He said nothing. So they both stood in silence in the entry way to his house. Bog wished he could talk to Marianne, privately, but he wasn’t sure that he’d get that chance, even if Marianne meant that she wasn’t leaving with Roland and her sister. He still wasn’t completely sure he’d have that chance ever again.

"You think she’s going to stay,” Roland observed.

Bog snorted. “Well, she’s not goin’ back with you, that’s for sure.”

“She can’t stay here, _human_. You know that. She’s the-”

“The princess, yes so I’ve heard,” Bog said. “Spare me your sudden concern for a kingdom ye only seem to want for power. If she chooses to come back, that’s on her terms.”

“And you’re just gonna let her go?”

“For fuck’s sake, ye really do have listenin’ comprehension issues, don’t ye? I’m not holdin her captive. I’ve been keepin an eye on her until she could return - again - on her bloody terms. Have ye got that or should I write it down?" 

"Don’t think I couldn’t see how you look at her.” Roland’s voice was smug. “You love her.”

Bog had seen this coming and felt only tired annoyance. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Oh I’m sure you think that now,” he went on, still caught up in some imaginary world where bringing up Bog’s feelings meant he had the upper hand now. “You think, even if she leaves, that she’ll come back. I’m not plannin on letting that happen.”

“And that means she’ll have to marry _you_?” Bog asked dryly. “Is there a lack of fairy men in your world?”

Irritation tinted the blond’s voice now. “You’ll let her go, even if she can never come back to you.”

He was trying to twist Bog’s words somehow, into somehow saying that he planned to hold onto Marianne, something that could be twisted into kidnapping the princess. Something he could use to convince the fairy kingdom that humans were dangerous, to really convince them to close borders for good. A self-fulfilling prophesy of sorts; saying he didn’t want to lose Marianne would be how he’d lose Marianne.

Like Roland was going to get that fucking satisfaction. 

“Listen, Pretty Boy - I’m not you. Marianne will do whatever she wants to do and that is none of my fuckin business. It’s not up to me to decide to _let_ her do anythin.”

Roland was silent for a second and when he spoke his voice was confused to the point to petulance. “But you love her.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed, shaking his head. 

“ _What_?” The fairy demanded, and here Bog could sense the first traces of real anger in his voice and posture. He didn’t like that he was being laughed at, being mocked. 

Bog’s laugh tapered out with an amused chuckle. “It says somethin about how ye see love that ye think just because I love her means that I expect her to be mine.”

Roland stiffened, ready to snap back when Dawn returned. Just Dawn, her face pale, her eyes red, but a determination in the set of her mouth and way she carried herself. She smiled at Bog.

“We’re going home.” She said simply. She took his free hand. “Thank you for taking care of Marianne.”

Bog blinked, startled, but nodded. 

“Isn’t Marianne-” Roland began.

“Marianne is _none_ of your concern,” Dawn snapped. Her voice softened. “Bog, could you take Roland to the border with me? We have guards waiting for us on our side so I can deal with him after that.”

“I- yeah. Sure.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, asked, “Is Marianne all right?”

“She’s fine. You two can talk after we leave." 

He could deal with that.

The portal in action was honestly the weirdest thing Bog had ever seen. Watching them pass over wasn’t like a Stargate sort of thing. Bog handed Roland over to Dawn, in more of a shove, they stepped over the primroses… and it was like the moment after staring at the sun - all of the brightness and spotty vision without the flash of brightness. By the time his sight had cleared, the two fairies were gone. 

When he returned to his house, Marianne was hovering outside. Bog passed her and shut the sliding glass door before returning.

"So,” he said, sitting down on the back porch and drawing his knees up as a perch. “ _Princess_ Marianne.”

She gave him a look as she sat on the offered perch. “Still not sorry.”

He had to smile. “No, you shouldn’t be. I told you before you didn’t owe me anythin and I meant it. I’m sorry that I forgot about that.”

Marianne reluctantly smiled back. “You had a lot dropped on you just then, I can understand a bit of a freak out.”

“Ye were really goin to marry that?” Bog said thoughtfully.

Her dramatic groan was ruined by a slightly hysterical laugh. “Gods above, what was I thinking?”

He sighed. “That you loved him.”

Her smile disappeared, and she nodded. “I meant what I said, about being relieved that I never married him… but seeing him still- it still-”

Bog said nothing, just extended his hand. Marianne climbed onto it, let him bring her to him in another embrace. They were quiet for a while, thinking over how everything had changed between them in a matter of minutes. Unthinking, Bog shifted to press his lips to the very top of her head.

Marianne stiffened, and he felt himself turn an vibrant red. She wiggled out of his hold, moving so she could look at him. Her cheeks were bright red too, and she bit her lip. She didn’t look uncomfortable, though. Just… sad. “Bog,” she said softly, her voice was hoarse. “Bog, I-”

“You need to leave.”

There was a pause, but then she nodded. “I told Dawn to leave without me, but that I’d be back before today is over. I probably should have left with them - I don’t want Roland left to his own devices without me there for too long - but I couldn’t- I couldn’t do it.” She looked down and then back up through her lashes. “Maybe I was only strong with you here.”

Bog raised an eyebrow. “We both know that’s not true.”

She flushed but smiled sadly. “Maybe… I wanted to talk to you alone before I left., do this properly” Bog felt his heart clench, and closed his eyes for a second. Softly, she continued. “Bog, I don’t- I don’t know how much Roland said about my council closing the border even if I return is true, and believe me, I’m going to fight for it not to happen, and fight until my last breath but… but I don’t know what’s going to happen when I get back." 

Bog opened his mouth and she rushed her next words before he could speak. "I’m just- there’s a chance that I might- not be able to come back for a long time- that I might _never_ come back, and maybe it’s- maybe it’s better we treat this like that.”

“Yer the _princess_ ,” he said, unable to stop how pleading his voice sounded. “They have to listen to ye, don’t they?”

“Trust me, I wish,” she said with a watery kind of laugh. “Maybe I could give them an ultimatum; tell them if they plan to close the borders that they’ll be closing them with me on this side, for good.”

Bog felt his throat close for a moment. He choked out a laugh of his own. “Where on earth would ye stay?”

Marianne flushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Come on,” she said with forced nonchalance. “I thought that’d be obvious.”

There was honestly nothing he could say to that. 

She laughed a little at his silence. “I wouldn’t- I mean, hopefully I wouldn’t- _have_ to, either. But you should know I’d- I’d like that.”

“Me too,” he said hoarsely. _He’d known this was coming_ , he reminded himself. But god, he’d never expected her to leave him like this - and nothing could have prepared him for how much it would have hurt. “Do- do ye want me to walk ye there?”

Marianne shook her head. “No- no. It’s better- it’ll be easier if we do it like this. Here.”

Another short silence.

“Well, Princess Marianne,” he said, with a deep breath. “It’s been-”

“An adventure,” Marianne finished with a grin. “Thank you so much, Bog King, for everything. I promise, whatever happens, that I will never forget you.” She flew closer, brought a tiny hand to touch his cheek. Her face was so close  that he could see the warm brown of her eyes. 

He brought a hand up to cover hers. “Goodbye, Marianne.”

“Goodbye, Bog.”

There wasn’t anything else they could say after that, and there was no use prolonging it. Bog watched her fly away from him, watched until she simply vanished over his primroses. There was no backward glance, no hesitation on her part. He knew that was for her own benefit, that it was best not to over think it, but it still hurt in a sort of detached way, having her there only for her to disappear without pause.

Bog sat there, waiting for a glamoured young woman to appear, with a pixie cut of short dark hair and large brown eyes, with a smile more radiant than any star. Nothing happened. He didn’t know how long he waited, his eyes never leaving the patch of flowers in his father’s old garden, staring at it as if he could see the other world just beyond it, as if he could see his fairy princess, the woman he loved. He couldn’t.

He only left when it began to rain and he had gotten three calls from his bar, wondering where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise happy endings, friends. Do not despair.


	5. Hang Around

Lammas, she had told him. She hadn’t been over since Lammas.

His short week with Marianne was the third week of April, when spring was really kicking into full gear. The primroses hadn’t been blooming in March, which explained why the fairy and her kingdom hadn’t crossed over the veil to celebrate Ostara, or the Spring Equinox. 

Bog resigned himself to the barest hope that, if Marianne could talk her people around to keeping their borders open, that perhaps it would be more strict - like some sort of fantasy TSA guidelines - and that there would restricted crossing, truly limited to major holidays.

The next one was Beltane, or the May eve. 

Bog had kept the primroses growing, weeded around them. He placed stones around them, separating them from the rest of the garden, only for them, in true primrose fashion, to spread past their tiny fence. His fingers itched every time he saw them, but he wasn’t going to risk it. If Marianne could return, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t the thing preventing it.

He borrowed wind-chimes from his mother, hanging them off his back porch. He kept the stones around the primroses in a circle. He filled the bottle cap Marianne had used as a bowl with milk, and left it at the base of his garden. All things he had known and read up on about attracting fairies, about showing them that you meant them well. 

Bog knew he had to work that night, but he could hope that she’d wait for him. It felt like a thin hope, but Bog could still remember the look on Marianne’s face before she’d left him. He remembered her telling him that he held her _favor_ , remembered her promise to return, to let him know she was okay. 

She _had_ to return. 

She did not.

There was no sign that she had come at all when he returned home from work (not that he would have known what that sign was). Stricken, as raw as when she left him that day a week and a half prior, Bog didn’t stay up. Didn’t bother to wait and see if maybe, just maybe he was wrong. He already knew the truth. He would not see Marianne that night.

Bog went through the next day in a bit of a daze, trying to consume himself with thinking of other things, working on other things. When Marianne crept into his mind anyways, he consoled himself by remembering that it had nothing to do with how she felt about him. She told him she was trying to keep the portals open, but she might not succeed. He had no idea what she was going through.

That only made him feel worse; knowing she could be lonely, frustrated, hurting in any way - and he could do nothing to help her.

Halfway through the first of may it occurred to him to pick up the milk he’d left at the foot of his garden. 

Except it wasn’t there.

That alone, might not have surprised him. A woodland animal tipped it over, carried it away, that sort of thing - all completely understandable. However, that was not all that had changed. In its place - exactly in its place - there was a bouquet of flowers. The _tiniest_ bouquet of the tiniest wildflowers he had ever seen. It was even tied together with a thin twine. 

Bog picked it up with his thumb and forefinger, careful not to crush it. Had she left it for him? Did that mean she had crossed over the night before? But why would she have left without seeing him?

No. No this was different. She would have come over in glamour, he knew that, and this was a fairy-sized bouquet. Had she only been able to cross over for a moment, without her glamour-

Had she crossed over despite not being supposed to?

“Ah,” he said aloud, studying the bouquet. _That_ was it. A sign for him. The border wasn’t open for passage, but neither had it been shut down for good. A sign that there was still hope. That she hadn’t forgotten him.

Happier than he had been since she left (though that didn’t say much), Bog pinned the bouquet to his shirt like a tiny boutonniere for the rest of the day. Including work. If any of his employees made comments, they were out of his earshot and honestly, he didn’t care.

For the next month and a half, Bog tried to regulate Marianne to a specific corner of his mind. He missed her, terribly, but he wasn’t going to let that consume him. He knew stories of men who fell in love with fairy women, who when the man left her - or she left him - he became unable to focus on anything else, unable to live in a world untouched by her. They never ended very well for the man, those stories. Bog was determined not be one of them.

Then the same thing happened on the summer solstice. 

The exact same thing, really; _no_ Marianne, _yes_ flowers. Different flowers this time, obviously what was in season in her kingdom. 

Frowning, he set them in water in his kitchen, and wondered if the message was still the same. Obviously the portal was still open, or the flowers wouldn’t have gotten there, but were they _still_ negotiating? It had been nearly two months since he had seen her, two months and they hadn’t gotten any further in deciding whether or not to allow fairies to enter his world again. 

He thought about Marianne’s comment about an ultimatum, about - if they chose to close that border for good, she would stay with him, and felt a sudden selfish desire for that to be the outcome. He shook his head, and left the flowers to sit. He wouldn’t do that to her, wouldn’t make her choose one world for the rest of her life, not when she so loved them both, loved their interactions, history, conversation. That would make him as bad as that council she talked about, as bad as the man she nearly married.

He wouldn’t do that, no matter how much he missed her.

* * *

June became July, and heat began to take its toll on most flowering plants. Bog let most of them go, pouring all his concentration into keeping the primroses growing. He plucked the wilted heads off them whenever he good but made sure at least two were flowering at any time. 

He focused on that, not on how Lammas was the next holiday he could hope to see her at. That Lammas was the last holiday fairies crossed over for. That if she didn’t come for Lammas, it might be half a year before he ever saw her again. 

In the meantime, his mother and aunt were being supportive as best they could. For once Griselda seemed to understand that this did not mean pulling out a ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ comment and for Plum it meant that she was upfront with him about what she knew and didn’t know about fairies and their world.

One afternoon in late July, Plum’s car was in the shop and Bog had the dubious honor of taking her to buy more art supplies. It was, however, a rare moment between just the two of them, and Bog had a question he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted his mother around to hear. 

“Do you think I have fairy blood?" 

"Hm?” Plum looked up from where she was inspecting canvases.

“Fairy blood. Me. It’s a question.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it,” she said matter-of-factly, returning to her inspection. “It’s _extremely_ diluted, so I can’t see it on you to say for sure, if that’s what you’re asking. But I would be very surprised if we went through your father’s lineage and didn’t find something. It shows in your features.”

“Ha ha,” Bog said sarcastically, flexing his hands to keep from rubbing the rough, craggy stubble on his chin. Yes, what perfect fairy features he had.

His aunt looked at him again. “I’m serious. It’s your eyes; you have very fairy eyes.”

Bog touched the lines that creased the corners of his eyes, almost without thinking. He frequently considered his eyes - bright, clear blue - to be the only decent feature his face had to offer and a direct link to his father, but it was something else to consider it fairy. It was… oddly comforting.

With that in mind, he worked up enough courage to ask his next question. “Do ye think it’s enough?”

“Enough for what?”

He could feel his face getting hot, and he plucked at the collar of his shirt. “For me- for me- that is, for me to- to-”

“To cross over the veil,” Plum finished. Her tone was devoid of teasing or levity and that alone answered him. “Bog, sweetheart, no.” When he said nothing - trying not to react, honestly - she added. “Honestly, _I_ can’t even do it.”

“But ye can-”

“See,” she answered sagely. “What fairy I’ve got in me is enough to see the influence of their side. Can’t alter. Can’t create.”

Bog hadn’t held much hope in that idea, but it still felt like he had been punched to hear it was impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to do what he had been attempting to do for over a month; block out the pain and heartache he felt.

“I’m sorry, kid.” She said, her voice lowered. “I know how much you love that girl.”

“I’m an idiot,” he grumbled, red-faced. “It’s been months."  _  
_

_Doesn’t make it any easier_. He’d told Marianne that, when she brought up her late mother. The day they met, her sitting in a jar, him resigned to having to keep her safe. Trying to tell himself that he wouldn’t get attached to her. Much good that had done him.

He shook his head and tried again. "I barely even knew her a week.”

Plum was quiet for a long time, and for a moment, Bog hoped she’d forgotten the entire thing. She was reading the labels on tubes of paint, wrinkling her nose at some brands and putting them back. 

“Do you know I fell in love with your mother the day I met her?”

She laughed at Bog’s expression of open surprise. He knew a lot about his mother and Plum’s relationship; that they’d met while his father was still alive, that their relationship was open and polyamorous, and that when his father was dying, he told Plum to look after Griselda. At that point, Bog had been pretty sure nothing about his family’s romantic history could surprise him. He was clearly wrong.

Plum continued, “It was an art fair downtown - the both of them came to my booth, and-“ 

"And it was love at first sight?” Bog deadpanned. “Really.”

She gave him a look, but then laughed a little. “All right. Conventionally I suppose you’d think Griselda isn’t a beauty but she’s-” Plum waved her hand. “She’s honest, you know? There’s nothing about her she holds back or hides, not her opinions, not her emotions. I remember I was thinking about her for days after that, about how every emotion felt… amplified almost, compared to everyone else, because she didn’t tone herself down. And I wondered how it would feel to be loved by someone like that.”

She laughed, looking past Bog into some middle distance. “You know, I had been perfectly content without a relationship, and I had thought I’d live out my life that way. But that one thought, just that one, and I was a goner.” She focused on him again. “For some people, that’s all it takes to fall in love. For others, it takes years of knowing a person. And for a lot of people, it falls somewhere in between. But no version of it is wrong, or too fast or two slow, because everyone does it different.”

Bog had no idea how to feel, how he was supposed to feel after a speech like that. It felt nice, in a surprising way, to have his feelings for Marianne validated like that. Maybe he wasn’t so pathetic, falling in love so easily. Maybe it wasn’t strange or wrong to have fallen in love with a fairy princess. Maybe their love would just be difficult - but maybe, just maybe it wouldn’t be impossible.

* * *

Lammas came. 

Lammas went.

And nothing had changed.

Well, one thing had. The following morning, August the first, Bog found no bouquet of flowers awaiting him, found the milk still in the cup he’d left it in. No sign that anyone or anything had come across the border.

It felt like a stab in the gut. Did it mean that she wouldn’t be coming back? Did it mean the border was closed now, closed for good, that she had lost her fight? Did it simply mean she’d forgotten, that other things and daily life had taken her attention? None of these options were ones Bog was particularly fond of. None of them made him feel any less like someone had stepped on his heart. It was nearly four months since he had seen her, and the pain of possibly losing her for good was as raw as when it first presented itself. _Did it ever get easier_ , he wondered. At this point he sincerely doubted it.

A day passed before Bog wondered about his primroses. They were wilting anyways, and he knew he should cut them down - they’d been growing far longer than they usually did. But cutting them felt too painful, too final. Letting them wilt and die felt painful too. 

There was nothing about losing Marianne that wasn’t painful, honestly.

In the end, he decided to save it for the morning, and went to work, already not looking forward to facing an evening at the bar. His employees had caught on to their boss’s increasingly miserable mood since late april, and all of them knew it was something to do with a woman. He figured Steph had probably guessed it was about Marianne, just by the timing alone, though he never said a word about her since the day he had first met her. If anyone tried to bring her up that night, Bog felt he shouldn’t be liable for what happened to them.

Thankfully, they all steered clear of his morosely thunderous mood - though that did make him feel guilty too. Guilty and pathetic. 

The night seemed to drag on, as tuesday nights usually did at a bar. A couple work happy hours but that was as much clientele as they were like to get. Bog began wiping down back behind the bar a bit earlier than perhaps necessary but if they could get out early that night, he saw no reason to prolong it.

“Nice place you have, Mr. King." 

Bog froze at the sound of a woman speaking from behind him. Her voice was warm, a little bit sultry, but most of all, familiar. Familiar to him, in sound and cadence - a voice he’d heard before - as well as familiar being the tone she used - she spoke as though she knew him.

Bog turned slowly. It couldn’t be- it couldn’t possibly be-

The woman standing in his bar was petite, barely coming to his shoulder, with at least an inch attributed to her spiky short hair. She was dressed like any other young woman out at a bar; ripped purple leggings, a long, loose-fitting shirt of deep fuchsia and a black leather jacket. She had dark makeup adorning her eyes and lips, and tiny though she was, she looked ready to knock the world dead. It was hard to imagine that this was the same creature he’d first seen in a pure white wedding gown, trembling under a hosta bush.

But it was undoubtedly her. His tough girl.

"Marianne…” he breathed, stepping around the bar. He heard several of his employees whisper things, but he didn’t care to listen. Every sense he had was attuned to the woman standing in front of him. She wrung her hands together as he walked - slowly, as if moving in a dream - toward her, offering him a smile that was warm and shy at the same time. 

“Hi,” she said, as breathless as he was. She dropped her hands as he came closer, standing almost toe-to-toe with her. Unthinking he brought his hands to her forearms. Touching her, _really_ touching her.

“Am I dreamin?” He asked his voice hoarse with emotion.

“I hope not,” she said. Her eyes glittered with her laughter and quite possibly tears, and god, this was the closest he had ever seen her eyes. He could never have dreamed them to be such a impossibly vibrant shade of amber, practically gold. He _wasn’t_ dreaming. He wasn’t. This was Marianne. His Marianne.

“Somehow I knew ye’d still be tiny,” he said softly.

She made a sound like a choked laugh. “Of all the things to say,” she said, and pulled him down to her.

For months Bog King had imagined how it might feel to kiss Marianne, but like most things with her, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it; so soft, and warm, and tasting decidedly of cherries. Nothing could compare to the way her body rose up to meet his, to her so-soft moan when he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, to the wet heat of her mouth, her tongue brushing his in shaking, desperate strokes. He could feel wetness on her cheeks and didn’t know if they were her tears or his, but it didn’t matter. It just made him hold her tighter, kiss her harder,  and never, ever let her go.

When they parted it was for a very real need to breathe, and for several seconds they simply held each other, panting. Finally Marianne whispered “I’m so sorry.”

“F-for what?" 

"For taking so long. For- for making you wait. I never- I never wanted to be away this long - I can’t even imagine how it must have felt not knowing if I’d ever-”

“Hey, hey” he said softly, cupping her cheek, letting his thumb catch some of the tears. “It’s all right, Tough Girl. Yer here now.”

“I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you, too.” He gathered her into his arms, and, as predicted, she fit neatly against his chest. Only then did he notice the fact that literally the entire bar was staring at them. He had honestly forgotten where they were. 

Marianne had too, judging by her nervous laugh. “Hi,” she said, raising a hand to wiggle her fingers at the gawking patrons and employees.

Steph, still behind the bar, shook her wide-eyed surprise and crossed her arms. “You got a lot of explainin’ to do, Boss.”

Bog had to laugh, too happy to be embarrassed of annoyed. “Aye, Ah do. But not tonight, Ah think.”

“Oh definitely not tonight, because you’re leaving, aren’t you?” Bog blinked, and a couple of his other employees made startled noises. “ _Isn’t he_?” She added louder.

Affirming noises from his crew. 

Bog rolled his eyes. “I’ll have ye rememberin’ who’s whose boss.”

“Yeah yeah,” Steph said, waving a hand dismissively. “Take the fuckin’ night off. You two obviously have catchin’ up to do and I can’t stand PDA - you’re gonna make someone puke and it’ll probably be me.”

Marianne laughed. “ _I like her_ ,” she said. Bog grinned down at her before giving Steph a truly grateful smile. 

“Ah owe ye one.”

Steph barked a laugh. “I’ll add that to the list.”

* * *

Bog and Marianne did have a lot of catching up to do.

But they also had a lot of making up to do, too. For lost time, that was. For months of pining, that became longing, that the moment Bog saw her again became a desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt. A desire he could see mirrored in her eyes, and could taste in her kiss.

And that took a lot less talking.

Three bumps on his head, and assortment of bruises from running into furniture later, the pair of them made it to his bed (this wasn’t even going into the _very_ interesting retrieval of clothing they’d get to do the next morning). He didn’t feel a single one of those run-ins, and even if he had none of it would have mattered compared to Marianne. Marianne’s smooth skin, bit-by-bit revealing itself to him, Marianne’s hands dragging through his hair, over his shoulders, down his spine, Marianne’s voice gasping his name hot in his ear, then moaning it, then crying it out beneath him.

She lay on her stomach beside him afterwards, her beautiful amber eyes half-lidded, her smile dazed, her hair a positive disaster. Bog - equally dazed - trailed his fingers lightly over her sweat-damp skin, absently thinking that his dreams had never felt so god damn good.

Her butterfly wings were still there, on her back. An intricately patterned tattoo the same vibrant otherworldly shade of purple. A reminder that the young woman he lay beside was not, in fact, human. 

“Does it hurt?” he murmured, tracing the pattern with his finger.

Marianne hummed at the touch, arching against it. “Does what hurt?”

“The glamour. Maintaining it- is it a strain? I don’t want-”

Marianne cut him off, placing her fingers to his lips. His eyes flicked to hers for a second, before meeting her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said, shifting onto her side. She kept her hand on his face, cupping it, keeping his eyes on her. “Bog, I’m fine. I can’t do magic on this side of the border, remember? We exist in whatever way we crossed over, just exist. I don’t feel any different like this than I did as a tiny winged person that you kept in a jar.” She poked his nose.

“Hey - I kept ye in that jar for ten minutes and that’s pushin it,” he said, trying to scowl at her. The corners of his mouth kept pulling up, a smile he could not fight.

She wrinkled her nose. “The point is, no, it doesn’t hurt. No need to be protective of me.”

“That probably won’t stop me,” he said dryly.

Marianne laughed. “That’s all right. I think I like that about you.”

Bog said nothing, just kissed her deeply.

“It’s after Lammas,” he said, when they parted. It was honestly the first time the significance of the date occurred to him. In his defense, he’d had a lot of other things to think about.

She grinned, breathless as she was. “Yes, yes it is. I put a lot of faith in you keeping the primroses alive as long as you could.” Her smile vanished. “I had a not-so-great time convincing everyone back home to keep the borders up. It was a nightmare. My dad wasn’t much help. He used to be completely on my side, though he couldn’t do much; even as a king he had to try to appease some of our more conservative elders. But now he didn’t- doesn’t approve of my, um, personal attachment to this world.”

“Me,” Bog said.

“You,” she agreed. “He finally got everyone calmed down but I think - I’m almost sure he purposefully waited until Lammas to officially announce our arrangement. On the chance that the primroses would be gone, and I’d have to wait over half a year to cross over again, and that… maybe by then, I’d have forgotten you.”

He stiffened, and just like that Marianne’s smile returned. “It wouldn’t have worked, you know? I told you once, Bog King, you have my favor. I’d never forget you.” She pecked his lips. “I wanted to sneak over. I wanted to sneak over so many times, but I had to be good if I was going to get my way in the end. I just had to hope you wouldn’t forget me, being gone so long.”

“Forget ye? Marianne,” Bog said, brushing some hair off her forehead. “I haven’t been able to think of anythin else.” He kissed the top of her head, before something occurred to him. “Wait. Ye _never_ came over? Not once?”

Marianne frowned. “No. Why?”

Bog explained the milk and the bouquets of flowers on the major holidays, and Marianne listened, confused at first, before smiling. 

“That was probably Dawn. She’s the only person I know who could avoid getting caught, just by looking too innocent. She probably wanted to make sure you knew we hadn’t forgotten you, even if I couldn’t cross yet.” She ruffled his hair. “My father may still need a bit of convincing yet, but you’ve won my sister over. She calls you _Boggy_.”

Bog laughed. “Ye’ll have to tell her I’m honored.” Marianne laughed in turn. “You said that yer father was hopin ye couldn’t cross this year… does he know that yer here now?”

“I didn’t tell him, but I did tell Dawn, so yes, he knows.” She sighed, rolling onto her back. “He was going to have to deal with this arrangement sooner or later - so really, this is better for him.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s the second time ye’ve said _arrangement_. Why do I have the feelin yer not just talking about the decision to keep the border open?”

Marianne looked at him and her smile dimpled. “Bog, why’d you keep the primroses growing after Lammas, if you knew it should mean that I wasn’t coming?”

He frowned. “I- I wasn’t keepin’ them growin’ anymore. But they weren’t goin to just die overnight, and it’s only been a day.” He felt a kind of phantom chill pass through him before speaking his next thought. “I was plannin’ to cut them tomorrow morning, but now I-”

“Great,” she said sweetly. “Can I help?”

“What.”

“Help you cut the primroses.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter. When Bog was still silent, obviously stunned, she asked, “Do you know what we do in the winter?”

“Haven’t a clue,” he heard himself say.

“We migrate. There’s another kingdom hundreds of miles south of ours. It’s a whole long, complicated ordeal and I’ve never enjoyed it, but fairies don’t do well with frosts.” She shook her head, returning to the topic at hand. “For six months or so we’re diplomatic guests, not really a kingdom of our own. So I took a gamble suggesting that- if they don’t necessarily need me-”

“ _Marianne_ -”

“That I could spend that time with a… _different_ diplomatic relationship.”

“Marianne!” Bog pushed himself to his elbows, his eyes wide. “Yer not saying- ye- _here_ \- for _six months_?”

She laughed, a touch nervously. “Or longer? Until the primroses return in the spring.”

“B-but ye- yer still their _princess_!”

“For a kingdom that’s practically put on hold for that half of the year!” She said, half sitting as well. “Bog, I talked this through with my father. Argued might be a better word, but the point remains: our relationship with the Southern Fairy kingdom is steady and longstanding. Our relationship with your world is old, but shaky at best. Think of this- think of me as an ambassador.”

Bog was finding it hard to speak, hard to think, stuck on the idea that Marianne was not only here with him, but that she might be staying with him. For months. Regularly. 

He _had_ to be dreaming.

At his silence, Marianne began to babble. “I mean- I mean that’s assuming you’re _okay_ \- with- with me. Being around. Skies, I don’t mean to just- _force_ myself- and you do like being alone I know that but I just thought- and I probably should have asked but-”

She was upset, and he hated that, but he was very much struggling to think of a single thing to say to this new information. God no, he wasn’t upset that she’d be with him - just the opposite - he was just having serious trouble believing that this was actually happening to him. 

He managed to croak. “I’m hardly an example for my entire race, Tough Girl.” An echo of a conversation they’d had months ago, the context nearly identical; trying to make sense of her apparent affection for him, of all people.

Marianne stopped her tirade, cocking her head. As she always had, she read the deeper self-consciousness in his face, and her own anxiety seemed to fade. 

“I know that,” she said. “But you’re certainly more contact than we’ve had in years. I can only imagine what I’ll be able to learn in the next six months, not to mention all the places and things you can show me.”

“So yer usin me,” he said dryly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Would that make it easier to believe?”

“Probably.”

“All right. _Yes_ , Bog King, I am using you.” She straddled his hips, her smile becoming a smirk when he inhaled sharply. “Are you gonna tell me there’s nothing you want to use me for?”

She was teasing him and he had to laugh, even though his heart was racing. He reached for her, pulling her down and capturing her lips with his. She moaned softly, dragging her fingers through his hair before breaking away.

Breathless, she rested her forehead on his. “Honestly, finding me, a _fairy_ , in your garden was all completely normal to you. But the idea that I want to stay with you - is that so hard to believe?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said roughly. “That ye want- that ye want me. I-”

“How could I not?” She said. “Bog, you really have no idea how- how happy being around you makes me. No idea how unhappy I had been before I met you. I thought I was okay, I thought things might be better when I got married to Roland, but deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be.

"The last few months have just proven that to me. It’s been better; I’m not letting anyone walk over me anymore, I’m getting to be myself and really explore that. But I was still missing someone who understood all that, someone I could share it with. Dawn and I are getting along so much better now but then-” She rolled her hips against his, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning. “I want someone I can do this with, too.”

She rocked against him again and Bog couldn’t help but moan. He brought hand up behind her head, keeping her forehead pressed against his, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Ah- Ah don’t know what to say.”

Marianne’s smile was a bashful, beautiful thing. “You could say that I can stay?”

Bog closed his eyes for a moment, taking a moment to breath, to realize he really wasn’t dreaming. The fairy princess he’d taken care of two and a half months before - and subsequently fallen in love with - was in bed with him, telling him she wanted to live with him. If that was what he wanted. 

“Yes,” he whispered. Then, louder. “Yes. Oh god, Marianne, _yes_.”

She laughed, breathless and a little disbelieving. “Really?”

Not quite trusting his voice, he nodded. She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him and laughing harder. Bog laughed too, wrapping his arms around her and holding her against him.

They settled back to lying down, Bog keeping Marianne resting against his chest. “Oh and Marianne?” He said, feeling exhaustion - physical and emotional truly setting in.

“Mmhmm?” She murmured, sounding as sleepy and content as he felt.

“Aye, you can help me cut down primroses tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was fun! I have ideas for a companion list-fic of things that immediately follow the events of this fic. So you have that to look forward to.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the fantastic feed-back! You guys really kept me going and invested in this universe. I have a blast!


	6. Out of Continuity Drabble - Wrong or Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the two day time skip in Chapter 4
> 
> Based on a review asking if Marianne was ever going to need to bathe. ;) 
> 
> Marianne's POV

It was the morning of her fourth day in the human world, and Princess Marianne was sitting on the kitchen counter of one Bog King, watching him as he cooked eggs on his stove. 

Marianne had never eaten eggs; it sounded kind of gruesome. She told Bog as much and he’d laughed, which made her smile. The man’s resting face was a bit grouchy, but she’d come to learn that was just how it looked - still it made her happy to get a smile from him.

It was the morning of her fourth day with him, though she didn’t really count the first two. She had spent most of them asleep, or in a state of emotional catatonia after everything that had happened the day of her would-have-been wedding. She was supposed to have gotten married four days ago, and might have if she hadn’t been in exactly the right place at the right time. It hadn’t felt like the _right place_ at the time, seeing the man she thought she loved kissing another, but in the long run Marianne was coming to accept that it was better this way. Better knowing before she was trapped in a union with a man who she knew - deep down had always known - didn’t want her the way she was.

It was boggling; she was a princess back home, but she could honestly say that she had never felt so respected as she did with a human man who knew next to nothing about her. Bog had been doing everything in his power to make her feel safe, comfortable, happy even. Not because he expected her favor (in fact, he was very surprised to have gained it), not to receive anything for doing it, but just because he didn’t want her to be upset. 

Marianne remembered his words after her nightmare two nights before, how he didn’t think he was doing anything particularly special for her. It made her wonder what _particularly special_ was from him. It made her want to know.

“Here,” he said presently, and sat before her a glob of something yellow and mostly solid. She shook off her thoughts, looked at what he was using as a plate for it then looked up at him. 

“Is this is the top of a beer bottle?”

He flushed above high cheek bones and she laughed. “Ye can recognize those, can ye?”

“Told you, I like going to bars when I’m over here,” she said honestly. She liked the noise, the crowds, the smell. Bog had still smelt like the bar he apparently owned, that night when he’d held her close to him. It was such an unfamiliar scent compared to what fairies were used to; it was bitter and smokey and she was growing quite fond of it.

“Oh, right!” Bog said suddenly, once again startling her out of half-formed thoughts. He left the counter only to return again with new toothpick utensils for her, like what she had used to eat the shrimp he’d made the night before. 

She accepted them with a murmur of thanks. “So this is how you cook eggs?” She asked.

“One of a number,” he said. “But scrambled is the easiest way for ye to eat, I think. Did ye want any fruit? I think I’ve got a can of mandarin oranges somewhere…”

“You sure know how to spoil a girl,” she said. 

He blushed again but grinned a toothy grin at her. “And ye sure know how to sweet talk a man.”

Marianne pursed her lips, and could feel her own cheeks turning pink. Thankfully, Bog had returned to digging through his pantry for whatever mandarin oranges were. She picked at the eggs before tasting them. It didn’t taste like much really, kind of salty and a strange consistency. But it grew on her. She caught Bog’s eyes on her, and smiled.

“They’re good. You should eat, too.”

He grinned. “I will, I will. Give me a minute, Tough Girl.”

 _Tough Girl_. Marianne closed her eyes for a moment, just basking in that dumb little nickname he’d given her the day they’d met. She’d never considered herself tough; she was constantly second-guessing herself, thinking too much about how she should behave. But he called her Tough Girl, and suddenly she wanted to be. She wanted to show the world that that’s who she _could_ be, all her self-conscious fears put aside. 

Bog had finished dishing out two bowls of orange fruit. Small and juicy looking, Marianne eyed them appreciatively and finished off her eggs before taking a piece of it in her hands. 

Bog, now finally sitting and eating himself, watched her as she hummed happily at the taste. There were orange trees on the outskirts of the fields but they didn’t eat the fruit as much as use the zest from the peel to flavor breads and to make perfumes. But _this_ , this was delicious. She grinned up at him again. “Thank you.”

He picked at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “It’s really nothin.”

Marianne rolled her eyes and returned to eating, knowing better to contest this with him by now. He really believed that. Just like he seemed to really believe he was hideous. 

She studied him out of the corner of her eye as he ate and almost snorted aloud in her own disbelief. _Hideous_. _**Please**_. He certainly looked nothing like a fairy man; he was all sharp angles and rough edges. She knew enough about humans to know that Bog King was still tall by their standards, with wide shoulders that seemed wider too because he had a tendency to hunch, bringing them closer to his ears. She had no idea how old he might be, but judging from the lines around his eyes and mouth, he wasn’t particularly young. His voice was gravelly and pulled at his vowels in a compelling manner. His teeth were crooked and jagged looking but his smiles were warm and so unabashedly happy. 

His _eyes_ , though. His eyes utterly arrested her every time she got a good look at them. Blue eyes were rare in fairies, compared to the far more common browns and greens but even with that in mind, Marianne was certain she had never seen eyes as blue as his. Clear and vibrant as a summer sky. She had never really known the meaning of getting lost in someone’s eyes until seeing his.

It was ridiculous, insane, _impossible_ , but Marianne couldn’t deny that she was growing steadily attracted to the man currently looking after her. At first this knowledge had upset and frustrated her; after everything that had happened with Roland so recently, didn’t she know better than to get attached to the first man she saw - not even going into the idea that this was a man of a completely different species - when she barely knew him.

But she was getting to know Bog, and she liked what she was getting to know. She liked that he was grumpy and rough and nothing at all like what she was used to. She liked that he called her Tough Girl and smiled at her and seemed to know exactly what to say.  

“Marianne?" 

Marianne blinked startled and embarrassed. "What?”

Bog bit his lip, looking like he was trying not to laugh. “Ah- nothin. It’s just- ye might want-” he gestured to her.

Frowning, Marianne looked down only to find that her arms and dress were coated in juice from the orange. She’d been so lost in thought - thoughts she hoped had not shown on her face - she hadn’t realized she had been holding a fistful of the fruit and basically squeezed it to pieces in her palm.

“Shit,” she muttered. Now Bog did laugh, which she knew was in response to her cussing. Skies, it was going to be hard to remember not to do that upon returning. It wasn’t fairy princess behavior, but it was just so damn easy to drop all of that around him. “I liked this dress.”

She looked up just to see him raise an eyebrow in amusement, looking over the scrappy wrap dress she’d fashioned for herself. She knew he’d picked up on how nice her wedding gown had been, even if she was certain he didn’t know that’s what it was. She hoped that before she left she could work up the nerve to ask him to burn it.

“I can- I can throw it in the wash, if ye want.”

Marianne raised an eyebrow in turn. “While I do what, exactly?”

She enjoyed the way his face reddened; it made her feel better about own stuttering heartbeat. He certainly just meant finding her another piece of fabric. There was a lot in the spare room. 

But instead, he scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, I was wonderin if ye- if ye didn’t want to- ah- wash yourself, too?”

“What?”

“Like a bath,” he clarified, now clearly blushing. 

Marianne felt herself turn a similar shade. “Oh,” she said. She was surprised she hadn’t thought about that before; she was pretty sticky and dirty, and her hair was probably a complete mess. Her sister would be appalled if she could see her right then.

“Ye- ye do that, right?”

She was startled into a laugh. “Yes, Bog, we bathe.” Most fairies used a communal baths near a spring, but the palace had its own private springs. The water was crisp and clear and usually scented with flower petals. She had oils for her hair that her handmaidens helped her with. She had none of that here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t at least rinse herself off. Somewhere. “But- here- where would I…?" 

Bog stood. "Well since I’m in the mood to _spoil_ ye,” he said, his accent thickening with his teasing and dammit how could that man honestly have no idea what he was doing when he spoke like that. “I think I can figure somethin out. If ye want, that is?”

“No- I mean, yes. Yes, that sounds- sounds wonderful.” Marianne stuttered. 

He gathered the breakfast dishes, bringing them to his sink, while Marianne considered the way she reacted to him. He wasn’t the first man she’d ever been attracted to; she had nearly married Roland based on his physical appearance alone. But her feelings for Roland felt so insignificant in hindsight. They’d never done much embracing, he’d never kissed her, and she hadn’t… cared. He was attractive in a way that seemed meant only to be admired. She hadn’t wanted more. It had never even occurred to her to want it.

But Bog… The way his _voice_ caressed her was more sensual than nearly two years of courting by Roland. She watched him move, surprisingly graceful for his size, and didn’t care that currently she was an unglamoured fairy and him a human man - she wanted to touch him, be touched by him. She itched for the primroses to return just so she could come back and make that desire a reality.

This was bad.

“What about your wings?” Bog was asking her over his shoulder. He was digging in his cabinets for something.

“What about them?” Marianne asked, hoping her tone was casual.

“Can ye get them wet or…?”

“Oh, yes. Yeah, that’s fine like this. Not fine in a rainstorm, but yeah, like this.” She all but bit her tongue to stop herself from babbling.

He sent her a smile. “Good.”

He set on the counter before her a ceramic bowl. It was deep - when she stood it came about to her waist - and a warm brown color with… yes, dragonflies inlaid on the sides.

“Made it in a pottery class in college,” Bog said when Marianne looked back at him. “My mother never let me toss it.”

She studied it. “I’m glad she didn’t. It’s amazing.”

“Sweet-talker.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Gonna fill it up, then?”

“Was gettin to that. How hot d'ye want the water?”

“Hot?”

Bog looked startled for a moment, then a slow smile came to his lips. “Oh, Mari, I really am goin to spoil ye.”

She swallowed hard. This was very very bad.

Her bowl-bath was taken from her again, and Bog filled it with tap water before sticking it in the microwave. Marianne sat, listening to it go. She’d never had a hot bath; the springs were chilled. After hot sticky days, especially in the summer, it was a relief. She wasn’t sure what to think of soaking in warm water, but from Bog’s reaction it was something she was missing out on. She’d give it a try.

“I’ll be right back,” Bog added, disappearing down the hall while her bath still heated up. He disappeared into the spare room that, as far as Marianne could determine, housed many of the things his mother had left behind. She technically lived there still, Bog said, but obviously not often. 

There was a muffled “ _Ha_!” and Bog returned a moment later. In his hand was a small sachet.

“What’s that?”

“Plum used to buy my mum all sorts of aromatherapy shit, way more than she needed so we got a whole box of em. Figured ye’d like it.”

She only understood some of that, but nodded slowly. “What’s it do - just smell good?”

“Pretty much. This one is-” he looked at it and then snorted. “Rosebud. Here.” He grabbed the bowl out of the microwave and brought it back to her, hissing a little at the heat of the bowl. Steam rose from the water, which Marianne hesitantly poked a finger in, hissing in turn. “Wait a minute,” Bog assured her. 

Tearing a corner of the sachet he let a portion of its contents pour into the bath. There were rosebuds and tiny torn up rose petals, and what looked like salt rocks. The water became milkier in color and seemed to fizz a little bit. Marianne could almost immediately smell roses as strongly as if she were in a field of them. It was smelt and looked beautiful.

She looked up from the water as Bog folded over the top of the sachet and set it aside. He caught her gaze and said, “What?”

“I’m beginning to understand why you said making me dinner wasn’t anything special, compared to _this_.”

Bog flushed but for once he didn’t deny it. It felt like a small victory but a victory all the same; she had no doubt Bog King was a kinder man than he gave himself credit for, but she felt validated in knowing that this was him treating her special. 

“Well,” he said, after they’d spent a minute just smiling at each other. “Go on.”

“Right, yeah.”

There was a beat before both of them remembered that bathing involved _undressing_. 

“I mean-”

“I’ll just-”

They fell silent, both blushing. 

Marianne finally took a breath. “You’re gonna wash my dress, right?” Shakily, he nodded. “All right. Close your eyes, and hold out your hand.” Her hands went to the knot at her hip.

“What- Marianne-?”

“Close your eyes!” She said again, and this time he did. She undid the knot and unwrapped herself. “Hand,” she commanded.

Bog held out a hand. His hands were enormous, long fingered and bony. Callused and warm. She remembered him holding her in his palm, his thumb gently rubbing between her wings…

Shaking off the insane impulse to put _herself_ into his hand instead, Marianne lay down the fabric scrap. Wrapping his hand, around it, he turned his back. 

“I’ll just- throw this in. I’ll be right back. I mean not back, like- _here_ , but- well- you know.”

Marianne laughed a little, embarrassed being naked in front of him, whether he could see her or not, but largely amused. “I know. I’ll tell you how I like this when you come back.”

Bog disappeared down the hall again, and Marianne turned back to the fragrant steaming bath. She put a finger in it again, but it had cooled enough that she didn’t feel like her skin was going to burn. The bowl had two handles and she climbed up on one, like a ladder. This time she dipped a foot in. The warm water seemed to push away all the soreness she had been building up in it the past few days. Slowly but surely, Marianne lowered more of herself into the water, finding the heat had the same soothing effect on all of her. She bit her lip, groaning softly as she sank into the water. Even her wings felt better, and the joints where they connected with her back felt relaxed, as if all the tension was seeping out of it. 

She closed her eyes for a moment and just let the heat and the smell of roses nearly overwhelm her. Her breaths deepened and evened out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so calm, not having to think about how she looked or behaved or if she was being fairy-enough for her community. 

She’d been gone for four days. Her sister was probably out of her mind with worry, her father, too. Oh, who was she kidding, the _entire kingdom_ had no idea what had happened to her. Just up and vanished on her would-be wedding day. She felt bad for that, she really did. And she worried what Roland might being saying. He’d made her believe she loved him, who knew what he could make everyone else believe, especially without her there.

She knew, oh how she knew she had to return when the primroses grew back, for the sake of the kingdom and for her family who did love and miss her. But it was strange to think that being marooned, far away from her home in a form that wasn’t really compatible with the surrounding area, would still have her feeling happier than she had in a long, long time. She was happier here, like this, than she had been when she was about to marry the man she thought she’d loved. 

Skies, she loved this _bath_ more than she had ever truly loved Roland.

She loved B-

She heard Bog’s footsteps return and her eyes snapped open, cutting that thought short. “How are ye feelin?”

“Amazing,” she told him immediately. “Thank you so much.”

Once again, Bog didn’t say ’ _it’s nothing_ ’. Instead, “Good. I brought a towel. Should I-?”

Marianne looked around her, noticing that between the milky color of the water and the large rosebuds floating, she was pretty well covered. “You can bring it over here. I’m decent.”

He did come over, but made a over-dramatic show of looking away as he lay down what looked like a dry washcloth. Even that was big for her, but it would work.

She stretched languidly, turning over so she could rest her arms on the edge of the bowl and watch Bog as he went to his living room, sitting on the couch. “Why are you doing this?” He made an inquisitive sound and she clarified. “Spoiling me?”

Bog turned a little and spoke over his shoulder. “Why are ye lettin me?”

“Because I- like it,” she said.

He turned further so she could see his face. He was grinning, and raised his eyebrows, and just waited until Marianne realized that that was the same answer to her question. Feeling her cheeks burn hotter than the bath she turned away from him, ducking her head under the water. Still she could hear him laugh.

 _He liked her_. Well, she knew that. But it still managed to blow her away time and again. He was right; she was unused to it. To being liked, and respected and cared for without feeling she had to sacrifice something about herself to deserve that affection. 

And now that she had it, it was really going to be _very_ hard to leave.

She had to go home, she told herself as firmly as if she slapped herself in the face. She was going to be queen someday, even if she didn’t marry. She didn’t need to marry for that, but that didn’t change that going back to her kingdom was necessary. 

So what? She’d have a human paramour for the summer months? She ran her fingers through wet hair in frustration. Assuming he even liked her that way. It was hard to imagine someone entertaining sexual attraction for a creature that currently spanned the length of his palm.

This was ridiculous, all of it. Her brain was just running circles around itself. She’d deal with all of that when she came to it. She could, for once, allow herself to enjoy it.

“Bog?” She said, not bothering to turn.

“Mmhm?”

“Thank you. For everything. Really, really, thank you.”

There was a pause, and Marianne suddenly felt she had said too much in that simple statement of gratitude. Then he spoke, a smile clear in his accented voice.

“Anythin’ for ye, Tough Girl.”

And Marianne was in love.


	7. Out of Continuity Drabble - Your Mind is Playing Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the five-ish months Marianne was back in her world. Aka, between Chapters 4 and 5. About three months into it.
> 
> There be some sexual stuff ahead - move along if that ain’t your thing.

Marianne wasn’t in her bed when she opened her eyes.

She wasn’t in the castle, she wasn’t even in the Fields. Her eyes opened to thick foliage, lit by a full moon and bioluminescent plant life. 

She was in the Forest, she realized, the land that bordered the Fields, said to be home of goblins and unseelie creatures. Not that Marianne, or any fairy in over an age, had ever seen one of those creatures. They were more like a children’s story, to keep little fairies and elves from venturing too far into the woods, full of real predators like birds and lizards.

How she got into the Forest, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t scared. Marianne had always had an interest in exploring the further reaches of her world, just as much as she was interested in the world on the other side of the veil. Perhaps, if the border to the Human realm was closed for good, she could console herself in this adventure at least.

As soon as she thought it, Marianne felt the swell of heartsickness that was now all too familiar to her, anytime she had unbidden thoughts of the human realm and who she left there, who was likely waiting for her even now, over two months since she had returned to the Fields. She quickly busied herself with looking around the Forest, pushing herself to her elbows.

The woods around her were dark and deep, the moonlight creating beams of light like skylights in the palace. It smelt like dewy earth and the heat of midsummer still clung to everything, even in the dead of night. Taking stock of herself, Marianne found she was wearing the scrap dress she had made halfway through her week in the human realm. She was a little surprised; she had tucked the fabric away after her return, taking it out only occasionally because it smelt of somewhere - and someone - else.

She was startled out of her musing by the sounds of something moving in the forest. Her heartbeat increased but she found it wasn’t with fear, but more of an intense anticipation bordering on excitement.

The reason for that reaction came a moment later, when the foliage before her parted as a creature emerged. He paused several paces before her, as if allowing her a moment to take him in. 

Tall and winged like a dragonfly, the creature suited the forest surrounding, seeming to have some sort of bark-like chitin around him. Apart from that he didn’t appear to be clothed. His shoulders were broad and spiked, his wide chest tapered into a thin waist and narrow hips. His face and - large - hands were a pale, not quite skin-tone, that darkened down from his hairline and over his eyes, giving them a deep-set look and making them almost glow.

She had never seen any creature that looked like him but his presence was overwhelmingly familiar. She knew him in the angles of his face, in his broad chest and spindly height. She knew those blue, blue eyes.

“Hello Marianne,” he said, warmth coloring his rough brogue, shading it with a kind of sultry fondness. Marianne felt heat pool in her gut immediately. 

When he had been so very much larger than her, that voice had echoed through her like rolling thunder. It sounded the way some ferns and flowers felt; a rough kind of velvety sound that she could feel almost like a physical caress.

It was his voice.

“Bog,” she breathed. Her Bog King. The human man she had fallen in love with over two months ago. Well… _mostly_ human, it appeared. “I knew you had Fae blood in you.”

The creature - not a _fairy_ , certainly, but she didn’t know what to call him in its stead, except what he would always be in any form, _Bog_ \- made a hum of agreement as he continued his approach in deliberate, measured strides. “ _Clever girl_ ,” he purred.

Marianne closed her eyes for a moment, shivers of pleasure coursing over her skin. If this was how her body reacted to his _voice_ , she could only anticipate what his touch would do to her.

She didn’t have to wait long. When she opened her eyes again, Bog had crouched before her, bringing himself to eye level with her. The look in those eyes was what could only be described as predatory, and Marianne was suddenly reminded of all those cautionary stories of goblins eating fairies who had wandered into their lands. 

“I was still right,” he said, as he came nearer - prowling, until she could feel heat radiating off of him, until he was looming over her, trapping her with his arms on either side.

Still, she forced herself to keep perfectly still. “How so?”

His crooked smile showed off teeth sharper than a human would posses. “They daen’t make _fairies_ that look like me.”

Even in her fevered state, Marianne had to give a soft snort of disbelief; _he still thought himself hideous?_ Bog shrugged one plated shoulder as if in half-hearted agreement with that thought, before pressing even closer, tilting his head so he could kiss the slope of her neck. She bit back a low moan, and made a valiant attempt at speech. “Bog, I don’t- _mmm_ \- I don’t want a pretty fairy boy.”

“No?” He murmured, his breath so hot and his lips so soft and oh gods above, he was _teasing_ her, wasn’t he? “Well, what _do_ ye want, princess?”

She wanted to touch him, but she was reclining on her elbows still and if she moved she’d lose her balance. She wanted him to touch her; she’d noticed how large his hands were - another thing that had carried over from his human self - and she wanted them everywhere. Above all, she wanted this moment with him, alone, apart from both her world and his, to last. 

“I want you, Bog King,” she said. He pulled away enough to meet her eyes, and for a moment they were all she saw. She could drown in that blue, and would welcome it. No matter how the rest of him looked, his eyes would always steal her breath and stop her heart. “Just you.”

Bog hesitated and Marianne waited him out, holding his gaze, willing him to believe her. No matter how the rest of him looked, he would always be the man she’d fallen for.

With her message apparently received, Bog let out a low, rumbling growl and covered her mouth with his in a rough, open-mouthed kiss. 

For all his rough appearance, the Bog she had gotten to know was incredibly shy and easily flustered. But she had began to realize - or maybe just hope, in a very private place - that if he put that insecurity aside he was a very passionate man, and if he desired her even a fraction of how much she desired him that passion could be put to very good use.

She had been very, very right.

She matched his sudden hunger with her own, moaning and parting her lips, her tongue seeking his out. His scent, some mixture of woodsmoke and spice, surrounded her, making her head swim a little. Bog pressed insistently against her, lowering her back against the mossy forest floor, not breaking their kiss for a second. 

Her hands freed up, she reached for him, gliding over rough bark-like texture. Though not particularly pliant, his shuddering response led Marianne to believe it was more sensitive than it appeared. His wings rattled and buzzed over them both, creating the only coolness in the humid night air. 

They parted long enough to take shaky breaths, before Bog lowered his head and resumed kissing along her neck. Marianne brought a hand behind his head, holding him there, mewling with pleasure as he lavished her with hot, sucking kisses, grazing his teeth along her smooth skin. 

“Nice dress, Tough Girl,” he murmured as his own hands wandered, brushing the frayed edge of the scrap of fabric. 

“You- oh _gods_ , Bog-” she whined as his hands dipped under the fabric. Silently she was thanking any god or spirit listening that it was so easy to brush aside.”You like it?”

She remembered making it, while he slept on his couch and wondering as she wrapped herself in the fabric if it looked attractive. It was the silliest thing, she had chastised herself. She was a fairy, what did it matter if her - incredibly, incredibly hot - host found her appealing. Still, when he had only given her a glance and an offhand comment she had felt even stupider for the whole thing. Still, better that than her wedding gown.

Now Bog’s hands stilled and pulled back again to observe her, flushed and disheveled on the forest floor beneath him. His smirk was a dangerous thing. “Oh, Marianne,” he was purring again, his voice gravelly and sultry and Marianne whimpered a little. “I’ve wanted ye for so long.”

“Me, too,” she said, her own voice rough with more than just desire. “Gods, Bog- please-”

He smiled a different, softer smile for a moment, and said nothing, simply resuming the movements of his hands under her dress.

His hands were as deliciously rough as they had been when she had been a fraction of his size, sitting in his palm. But now, oh _now_ she could really appreciate their calloused texture. Now he could use claw-like nails to drag over her thigh, before softening his caress to the pads of his fingertips, feather light and teasing as they traveled up her inner thigh while she writhed and moaned beneath him.

Absently, Marianne spared a moment to wonder at how sudden this all was, how fast they were moving. But it didn’t feel wrong, and she never, ever wanted it to stop. She wanted him, and by some miracle, he wanted her, too. Now they had each other, alone. Nothing had ever felt more right.

“Bog pleas- ohhh oh _shit_ ,” she gasped as Bog either had listened to her plea or had simply tired of teasing her and inched his fingers up to the wet heat that waited between her legs. “Oh shiiiit yes, yes- gods yes.”

“Ye like tha’?” He breathed into her hair. She could feel that he was stiff, quivering slightly as he held himself over her, but his hands were gentle and coaxing, his long fingers drawing out each pleasurable stroke until she could hardly stand it.

“Yes, ohh don’t stop-!” His finger swirled around her aching bud and she threw her head back. “FUCK BOG- YES YESSS!” 

Marianne could feel herself reaching a summit, a peak of something ready to crash over her. She gasped, words dying on her lips in favor of gasps and moans. “Ohhhh- mmmhph! Ohh Bog more, pleassaaaHH! Moooh- _more_ -”

“That an order, my little fairy princess?” He asked, drawing his hand away and taking a moment to lick his fingers, slowly, deliberately.

Whimpering at the loss of his touch, she rolled her hips helplessly seeking some kind of friction. “I’m not a princess tonight, Bog King.”

“Oh?” He laughed softly. He trailed kisses over her ear, pulling the tip into his mouth for a moment. Marianne’s hips bucked and she cursed softly under him. “What are ye tonigh’ then?”

“Y _ours_.”

Bog looked at her. The moonlight silhouetted him above her, but his widened eyes seemed to glow. For a moment, in that lighting, he didn’t look like a fae, whatever kind of fae he might be. He looked like the Bog she had known and fallen for. Suddenly she couldn’t remember if she was a human or a fairy herself, or which world they were in. None of it mattered, though, because he was there, touching her, loving her. 

“Oh, Mari,” he said, and kissed her again. A moment later his fingers resumed their caress, drawing her back to her edge. She mewled against his mouth, digging her nails into his scalp, rocking her hips in rhythm with his touch. 

All at once, it was like something gave way, and she peaked, crying out sharply as white hot pleasure rushed through her veins and momentarily stopped her heart. For a moment it felt like she hovered, arching off the ground completely, gasping.

When she came back down, it was so hard she rattled the beaded canopy above her bed.

_Her bed._

In her room. In her castle. In her kingdom. In her world.

Marianne panted, coming down from her pleasurable release to the aching knowledge that it had all been a dream. An incredibly vivd dream, but a dream all the same. 

Rubbing a hand over her eyes, she sighed, letting the details of said dream wash over her in a melancholy kind of wonder. It was hardly her first fantasy she’d had of Bog King in the nearly three months since she had seen him, but the context of this one was new. Most of them involved her coming to him in glamour, and one or two… _interesting_ ones involving her still being her unglamoured self on his side of the veil. 

Though, it didn’t surprise her that she’d dreamt of him coming into her world - she was more familiar with this world and her place in it after all, it would make sense that her subconscious would place her fantasies there - and his appearance surprised her least of all. 

Bog wouldn’t have been a fairy, even if what fae blood he might have had been strong enough for him to manifest on this side of the veil. It was like his dream-self had said; fairy men didn’t look like him. And she loved him all the more for that. She wanted him, exactly how he was, every rough edge and dark side. There was nothing she would change.

_Gods, she missed him._

Whatever pleasure she had felt from dreaming about his hands on her body only made her feel more bereft of it now. She could get off all she wanted thinking about him, but it didn’t change that she woke to a world without him - to an empty bed. She sighed, staring at the canopy above her for several minutes before she made the decision to get up. Before-dawn sword training sounded like her best plan.

She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping any more that night. 


End file.
